


slow fall

by stepofthewind



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Bang Challenge, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepofthewind/pseuds/stepofthewind
Summary: Not even a couple minutes into her careful watch, Sofia catches sight of some faint movement beneath the shade of the tree line outside of her former property. It’s incessant, the rustling, so she braces herself for a whole herd of deer eagerly. If only Dale could see it now.That’s where she’s wrong. What parts the grass instead is the slender tail of a feline.(Sofia discovers a cat colony in the backyards of Staten Island and tries to take them in as her own.)
Relationships: Sofia Bicicleta & Kingston Brown, Sofia Bicicleta & La Gran Gata, Sofia Bicicleta & Misty Moore | Rowan Berry, Sofia Bicicleta & Pete Conlan, Sofia Bicicleta & Ricky Matsui, Sofia Bicicleta/Dale Lee
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34
Collections: Dimension 20 Big Bang





	slow fall

**Author's Note:**

> down to the wire with this release, huh? it would not have happened any other way, honestly. happy d20bb! i hope you all enjoy this story! this note is just short and sweet, since i am running low on creative juices for even writing something that is not prose, but i want to thank my partner, keegan ([@steadfastpetrel](https://twitter.com/steadfastpetrel)), for sticking it out with me through thick and thin. i am so glad this project brought us together as friends for the better. who knew that sofia and cats could be among our top common interests?
> 
> [check out his art of the fic! it is so cute!](https://twitter.com/steadfastpetrel/status/1344886030168698880)
> 
> my twitter is [sofiabicicleta](https://twitter.com/sofiabicicleta) and my tumblr is [behercowboy](https://behercowboy.tumblr.com), if you'd like to chat.

Home tends to get a little too lonely for Sofia sometimes.

With a fire escape as its only anchor to the world below, the location of the Order of the Concrete Fist sits as the sole occupant of the sky amongst an empty city of clouds. Around it stretches an infinite horizon, the view undisrupted by much of anything save for the sun. It levels the building with its blinding rays around the later hours every morning. Sure, it’s a startling alarm source, but it’s better than any sound ever could be.

Since her room is on the east side of the monastery, it’s usually then that Sofia wakes. Curtains never drawn closed, this is decidedly when she rises, after the daylight goes the length of her bed and begins to bear down on her restful face. Her features crinkle a touch, a tendency when beams hit the backs of one’s eyelids, but once the warmth is welcoming, her eyes slowly open. She blearily stares out for a bit and absorbs it, absolute light and nothing more. Soon, at last, Sofia starts to move. Sheets rustle. Pillows pile up. Eventually, she’s on her feet.

Oh, the floor is cold. Dark hardwood cools her soles as she stumbles her way towards a mirror that she has crookedly hanging on a wall. Stepping forth to see her reflection, Sofia runs a hand through her hair, tousling the sleep out. It’s grown a little since she’d let inches of it singe off in the fiery aftermath of a certain fight at an art gallery.

Sofia goes to fiddle with a strand and wonders if she’s due for a trim. She does have all the time in the world for one now.

There’s an awkward knock at her door right as she tries it. “Sweetheart?” someone calls on the other side, Staten Island accent as heavy as Sofia’s.

“One minute!” she shouts back. With that, she abandons the clippers she nabbed off a nearby nightstand and comes out to see who it is.

It’s her mother that stands before her, still balanced on a foot from having lightly kicked at her daughter’s door. The steaming cups of coffee that she holds in both of her hands clear up why. Upon seeing Sofia, her mother lights up in a way that any doting woman would. She then gingerly passes her a mug and takes a pleasured sip out of her own.

“Good morning, Sof.”

“Good morning, mom.”

It’s a Sunday at the Monastery of the Midnight Sun, yet time passes oh so slowly at this height.

* * *

They usually take their coffee while they walk and talk on the pavement. Sofia’s mother is still getting used to the way that they defy gravity, evident in the way that she hesitantly steps on the walls that are a part of their daily route every time, but they both see it as progress nonetheless. Their strolls that wrap around the interior of the monastery eventually come to an end on the ceiling, where the two of them stop to stare out one of the round windows driven through the concrete and drink in the sunrise along with their coffees. The silence they assume is comfortable.

If there’s one thing Sofia loves noticing during this, it’s her mom marveling at her dark roast not spilling. She catches the reaction out of the corner of her eye every other day, getting careless with how she holds her cup and sloshing the liquid around until some of it slips out. Then, another test commences, as they watch the drops miraculously stay their course and stain the ceiling they stand on instead of falling to the floor overhead.

Her coffee is soaked up by the sidewalk. Her instinct to scuff her shoe at the dry spot overtakes her. A few minutes afterward, her mother excuses herself to go grab some more creamer. Maria Bicicleta’s awakening into the Unsleeping City is a slow but sure one, and it shows in these moments.

Sofia’s always loved her coffee black, but she is content to wait on her mother either way. Besides, all she’s doing is searching.

Turning her attention back to the windowpane, she lets her gaze rove around New York. To most, it’s not too interesting. There’s a mundanity that comes with being the greatest city in the world. The longer somebody lived in it, the more said somebody started to believe that.

What stops Sofia from falling for it is the familiar undercurrent of magic that runs right through her.

Sneak through suspicious alleyways, poke at the cracks in the age-old buildings, comb through the boroughs, and one could see a way to the Unsleeping City with ease. It wouldn’t even have to be glamorous. After all, Sofia _had_ fallen asleep to her first sight of it in a heap of garbage bags.

It’s gorgeous. The colors that tourists criticize for their dull contrast hide a world where the concept of a palette can’t be perceived with the naked eye. The claustrophobic sensation that newcomers can’t handle among crawling rats and cooing pigeons are a reflection of Nod is filled with dignified monstrosities and mourned dead. Sofia loves these halves since she is the one who solidified them into a whole.

Her heart palpitates a little at the thought. That’s really her honor, isn’t it? She chose to connect the worlds of the waking and the dreaming. Now, Sofia is First Fist of the Monastery of the Midnight Sun, and while she may not have ever thought she wanted it for herself, it’s finally hers.

Enough about that, though. She only seeks out the other parts of the city for the sake of her friends, anyway. All she cares about these days is her home right below her, beautiful Staten Island floating all on its lonesome in the waters of the bay. Angling her head downward, she is better able to get glimpses of it, even from afar. Everything is so clear down there. She can see her old house from here.

Briefly, Sofia wonders if she’ll ever get the gall to invite her father or any of her brothers up here for dinner. She can almost make out Mario’s face in her head now, features shifting until he settles on a soft “Sofie…” to say. Not a yes. Not a no. It sucks that her family legacy’s one of cowardice, doesn’t it?

She breathes, letting the thought recede into her brain. It’s almost too appropriate, the words she reminds herself with afterwards.

_It is what it is._

With that, she looks to the backyards.

The overgrowth on Staten Island is insane. It’s against regulation on all fronts. The grass is greener, and it’s lengthier, so high it’s like a kid could swim in it. Backroads crack as roots fight their way through the concrete. Weeds aren’t pulled. Lawns aren’t mowed. Hedges aren’t trimmed.

It’s a gardener’s worst nightmare. God, she loves it.

Yards connected when they were close enough to each other. One would think fencing helped to separate them, but it’s only another feature lost to the earth reclaiming the land. Much of it is made of wood, so the planks have rotten away during rainy days. That leaves posts having either fully fallen away or broken from the basic frame of it. Luckily, rusty nails leave some upright. That’s an easily accessible way to trespass if a creature’s smart, though.

It’s easy to guess what Sofia is waiting for, with that thought. A doe or a deer. Either would do for Dale. She remembers the mug in her hands then and raises it to her lips as she starts to search for where their old house stands. Well, where it used to stand, that is, the burnt remains of the structure evident. Fire seemed to have been a prevalent theme in her life before now, she thinks with a chuckle. Their backyard, though, it’s the perfect site for animals to meander into. It’s without too fancy of a porch, so the space is open to come through without obstacles.

Another sip of her coffee shoots through her system. She can’t wait to see how cute they are.

Not even a couple of minutes into her careful watch, Sofia catches sight of some faint movement beneath the shade of the tree line outside of her former property. It’s incessant, the rustling, so she braces herself for a whole herd of deer eagerly. If only Dale were here now.

That’s where she’s wrong. What parts the grass instead is the slender tail of a feline.

Singular isn’t right. It takes her a second to realize her error. No, there are _so_ many more than she could have anticipated, pouring in from out of nowhere. Surprised, she presses up against the glass, tracing lines across its surface and quietly counting them to herself. After a quick tally, she notes five cats coming along, padding through her and Dale’s old lawn like it’s their territory.

She squints in an attempt to make them out more. There’s little luck in that. Against the tall grasses, though, she can tell a few things for sure.

One’s black, one’s white, one’s a whole slew of browns while another’s faded in that shade. Finally, one’s grey, though it intentionally straggles behind the rest of the group. They meander around the backyard for a bit before noticing the bones of the porch. Upon further inspection, it’s structurally sound, as much as it may not look like it. Needing to be attached to a house isn’t necessary.

The white one sniffs the bottom step in caution before bounding up. Despite the additional load, the set of stairs remains standing, as does the rest of the platform. Content in its decision, the cat heads to a spot where the sun shines. The others follow, with the darker brown one not hesitating at the lead, and the lighter brown one precariously putting a paw down to test the weight. Eventually, it makes its way up, too. The black one slinks up the steps in turn.

The grey one lingers.

It stands in the grass for so long that Sofia starts to second guess her thought that the cat is meant to be there with the rest of them. In her indecision is when it moves, darting to the lowest step. Away from the company of the others, sunning themselves in the near noon light, the cat dwells in a shadow cast by a nearby tree on its own. There’s somehow solitude found here, in the abandoned ruins of a house lived in and loved.

Cats. Not deer.

Sofia steps back from the window, letting them bask in the moment on their own without unwanted eyes. Cats. There’s something about them that’s thrilling her. How had she and Dale never seen _cats_ in their entire time living on Staten Island?

At first, Sofia thinks of La Gran Gata, and how enthused she’d be by these fellow felines, but she falters when she remembers. Unfortunately, she hasn’t come to her in some time. Bodegas weren’t anything without their cats, she supposed, so she sorely understood.

Finishing off the last of her coffee, Sofia thinks of her mother after and glances around for her. Huh. She still isn’t back from getting that creamer?

Without warning, she flips from the ceiling, letting the fluctuating gravity switch where it holds her down. Her descent to the floor lands her at the center of the room she’s in with flawless footing. Sofia is upright in the main area of the monastery now, which is set in a sort of indoor cloister acting as the primary communal space for those also living and training here. Some people socializing notice, and applause even starts up.

A little abashed at all the attention, Sofia begins to head her way down a corridor, nodding in thanks to those clapping. For the few faces that she recognizes, she can’t help but flash a smile. Celebrity status at the Order of the Concrete Fist is a serious thing. How did Dale handle it?

Eventually, she turns into the refectory, where she’s more than sure her mother is.

The dining area thrums with the same energy that the halls do, with monks from all walks of New York life gathering together to partake in a humble meal. Breakfast is coming to a close, clear by those that clean tables with bowls and plates emptied of food on their surfaces, but the scent of flavored oatmeal and fresh fruit lingers in the air. Sofia’s stomach growls in close succession. Shit, she still needs to eat, doesn’t she?

She wanders into the community kitchen when she doesn’t find her mother anywhere, and there she is, exactly as she expected. Maria’s back is to her as she tends to something on the stove, and it’s peaceful, watching it lift and fall.

“Hey, mom,” she says after a minute. “I was wondering what was taking you so long.”

Her mother starts at the sound of her voice. When she turns to see Sofia, though, her shoulders sag in relief. “Oh, Sof,” she says, edging her way into an apology. “I’m sorry. I had a craving for something…”

“It’s alright.” She can see her cup of coffee, gone cold and forgotten at the end of the counter, no creamer in sight. “I’m hungry myself, honestly.”

Maria perks up. “You are? Well, I’m glad I made crêpes for two, then.”

On that note, she pulls away from the stove. Pan in her hand, she hovers it over an empty plate, and out slides a pair of thin pancakes, fresh and crisp. They’re the most scrumptious pieces of nothing Sofia has ever laid eyes on.

Another pang of hunger gets to her then. “Those look delicious.”

“They are,” Maria agrees as she discards the skillet into a sink, when she realizes what Sofia’s really said and turns to stare at her, hand positioned on a hip. “What?” she challenges teasingly. “Are you doubting my culinary skills?”

Sofia shakes her head profusely, setting down her coffee cup beside her mother’s. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” her mother says, unconvinced until she moves on in their conversation, heading towards the refrigerator for some fruit. “Did you sleep well? I don’t know how you do it, sleeping through all that light. And you never even draw your windows shut, either.”

“I don’t sleep through it,” Sofia clarifies, taking that as a cue to nab some fruit for herself out of a bunch nearby and withdraw a knife from a drawer. “I wake up to it. There’s a difference.” She sounds childish, doesn’t she? “Yeah, I did. Did you?”

“Of course I did. Without your father around to snore my ear off, I sleep like a baby.”

They laugh together at that. It’s good, bonding through things like this. Chopping up peeled bananas into small slices while her mother runs water over a couple of strawberries and blueberries to clean them, that’s their normal. Bring them to the ground and stick them in an apartment closer to the city, but they’d still be doing the same thing. Regardless of location, this is a routine that suits them well.

Being thousands of miles above Staten Island is only an added bonus.

Sofia’s happy here. Sure, it’s lonely sometimes. That’s how it is, though. _Really_ , she’s happy here.

“You’ll never guess what I saw out the window when you left,” Sofia says to her mother after they’ve wrapped up preparing their respective crêpes.

They’re out in the refectory now, which is deserted, not including the two of them. She’s sat atop the table they’re at, legs dangling off to the side. It’s a little defiance that Maria, who sits on a stool near her, doesn’t mind. What she _does_ mind is her daughter devouring her food as if it isn’t anything special.

“Slow down, Sof, good god.”

“Sorry,” she says through a mouthful of food. After a thorough gulp, she gives her mom her full attention. “You gonna guess, or…?”

“No need to guess,” Maria insists as she carefully cuts her crêpe apart with fork and knife for another piece. “How many deer was it this time?”

“It wasn’t deer.”

“Really?” Stunned, her mother turns where she’s seated. “What, then?”

* * *

It’s been a while since Sofia has stood on solid ground. In truth, there isn’t really a reason for her to come down from the heights of the monastery unless it’s in the case of an emergency. Even then, she usually isn’t the first to call from on high. The other unsung heroes of New York are. They cover everything, large and small, and there’s reassurance in the fact that they can handle whatever comes their way.

Harlem is alive at this hour, despite the winter starting to settle in. Residents take up the sidewalk block by block. Sofia stands on a curb now, bundled up in a white turtleneck and a corduroy coat lined with faux shearling, loitering outside a certain brownstone until someone lets her in. There’s an energy here unlike anything she’s ever encountered in the city before. She assumes the signature of it can only be traced to the man himself. Her friend, defender of his domain, the one famously hailing from uptown.

“Kingston Brown!” she greets him with a grin when he swings the door open for her.

“Sofia!” he exclaims. “Is that you?” Kingston sounds incredulous, though his arms are already outstretched for an embrace.

“In the flesh,” she responds, accepting it without hesitation. When he hugs her, he lifts her into it, so she has to get on her tiptoes, pointedly still touching the ground in case he needs the support. “Don’t tell me you’re forgetting me, old man.”

He reels out of it a little in indignation. “Don’t you _dare_ call me an old man. I am 55 and I am nowhere near old.”

“You change your mind about your age every day.” This, she’s missed.

“So what?” She can tell from the smile cracking across Kingston’s face that he’s missed it too, their camaraderie that comes through in a conversation. “I’m not forgetting you, Sofia. It’s good to see your head out of the clouds is all.”

“You said you had things handled here!” she says, lightly shoving his arm.

“And I do!” Kingston insists, accidentally catching the attention of a couple passing by with his volume. They wave at him, and without missing a beat, he waves back. In that moment, his love for the city seems to alight on them. They walk away with a skip in their step. “We all do,” he continues like nothing had happened. “That shouldn’t stop you from visiting every now and then.”

She lifts her hands in defeat. “Alright. You got me. I’ll start coming down more.”

His expression reads as if he’d expected her to put up more of a fight. It’s somewhat suspect that she’s given up so soon. Still, he’s not one to linger any longer if she isn’t. “Hey now, don’t do it for my sake,” he relents. “Do it for yours. Gives your man less of a trip, anyway. Let’s get inside.”

He steps aside, an unspoken _ladies first_ on the air, and with that, she enters in.

* * *

It takes three flights of stairs to get to Kingston’s. Sure, there’s an elevator in the building, but the thing only works when he wants it to, and that’s barely enough as it is. It’s only when his parents need it that it suddenly decides to operate again. The thing goes defunct the moment they’re through with it.

Sofia chances a glance at it on her way up, noting the same hastily written “Out of Order” sign taped to the scissor gate, which flutters off whenever the elevator is in working condition again. It doesn’t surprise her in the slightest. The Vox Populi is humble in all respects, except in the case of the Browns, in which he is excused.

As she comes up to the second level, someone is already there, standing on the landing looking like she could tell she’s coming.

Alive and lovely as ever, Kingston’s mother can’t help herself as she approaches Sofia with the same open arms her son had.

“Mrs. Brown! Hello!” Sofia greets her, giving the woman a long-awaited hug. Even she can admit that this reunion is long overdue. “How are you?” she asks once they’re out of it.

“Honey, I’m alright, no need to worry about me. You know he does that enough between the both of us.”

Victoria nods in the direction of Kingston as he ascends the steps after Sofia. He flashes his mother a look, and she returns it in kind. Then, a thought comes to her, as though it’d escaped her earlier and only occurred to her again.

“Hey now, invite the pretty little lady to breakfast,” she suggests to her son.

“It’s noon, mom,” he huffs out as he shrugs his coat off, sounding as though he’d seen this coming.

“Brunch, then,” Victoria counters with ease as she turns to stare at Sofia expectantly. “How does that sound?”

All eyes are on her, then, and the attention’s a lot.

“Oh, Mrs. Brown, as much as I’d love to, I’m technically on a diet…”

“Exactly,” Kingston concurs. “Wouldn’t want you cheating on monastic tradition.”

“…but if you have anything organic, I could take it off your hands.”

Sofia offers Kingston a guilty smile, attempting an apologetic appearance, though there’s nothing of the sort in it. He can only roll his eyes in response. There’s no use protesting at this point. Reluctantly, he sidles up beside her, slinging his jacket through the crook of his arm. His mother looks pleased, like it’s another point on their scoreboard for her, so she goes to kiss her son on the cheek. It’s given in gratitude, silently saying it means more than she can place with words, his patience.

She knows that gesture well. Her own mother plants the same on the side of her face after they forgive one another for fighting.

“Tell you what,” Victoria says after that, clasping her hands around Sofia’s. “I’ll get you a good omelet going. I haven’t made one of those in a hot minute. I’ll even throw in a little cheddar here and there, if you want. Eggs and cheese are organic, right?”

“Yeah,” Sofia replies. Her heart’s there. “Organic enough. I’ll take it all. Thank you.”

Victoria shakes her head. “Don’t thank me,” she insists, and the sincerity in her tone is effortless. “Your company is payment enough.”

With that, she scurries on through the threshold of the apartment. “Come in, come in!” she shouts to them from inside, turning a corner and vanishing from view.

Sofia has hardly shifted a sidelong glance in Kingston’s direction when he catches it and meets her eye to eye. Furrowed as his brow is, there’s a gleam to his gaze that she knows all too well.

“There better be coffee in this for me,” he mumbles under his breath, which means he does not mind brunch.

“Since when do your parents have a dog?” Sofia asks with a frown. He has Bruce, but that bulldog can’t make it five feet out of his apartment, let alone down a flight of stairs, without collapsing, bless his heart.

That’s the thing. “They don’t.”

He barrels in at that, and she follows him, trailing in only to be shocked by the sight.

Everyone, _everyone,_ is in here. Crammed into the tiniest kitchen, crowded around a table technically meant for two, there they all are. Pete and Rowan chat amicably in a banquette, backs to the bay window, while Ricky and Esther have mismatched chairs on the other side. Ox is comfy at their feet, the occasional _woof_ casting light on the floor. Victoria’s already cracking an egg onto a skillet, while her husband Winston watches.

Even Liz is here, though she looks like she’s on the clock, finishing off a slice of toast fast. She is the first to notice the two of them come in, so as if they were her cue, she snatches up her briefcase and starts to leave.

“I gotta go,” she says to Kingston hastily. “See you tonight?”

“Tonight,” he affirms, going to kiss her.

“Great.” It lightens her up, enough for her to turn to Sofia with the faintest flush. “Hey, Sofia. I’m glad I caught you as I’m off. You doing good?”

“Yeah,” she responds. “Yeah, I’m doing good. Hope your commute’s not too hectic.”

Liz laughs at that. “With his luck, it won’t be. He rubs off on me, you know.” One last look at Kingston as she tells Sofia, “Take care, okay?” Then, she’s gone.

Interesting. “What’s tonight?” Sofia tries to get out of Kingston with a taunting nudge.

“None of your concern,” he says with a contagious smile. “What you _should_ be worrying about is what the _hell_ everybody is doing down here!”

If Kingston’s voice hasn’t commanded attention already, it does now, turning all heads in the dining room his way. Even Ox is silent, the Dalmatian’s snout under his paws. It takes them a couple of seconds to process what he says, and even a little longer to acknowledge that Sofia is standing with him in the doorway. She’s not sure what to do with her hands for some reason. Wave? A half-hearted attempt at that is all she has.

Naturally, Pete is the first to speak. “Hey! Look who’s alive!”

Is he talking to her? Okay. That’s tough. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” His voice pleads innocent. He is anything but.

“It’s good to see you, darling,” Rowan cuts in before he can continue.

“Yeah!” Ricky agrees. “We’ve missed you!”

“Did none of you hear me?” Kingston continues over the sentimental talk. “I leave for a minute and you can’t sit still in my apartment?”

“And pass up free food?” Pete protests immediately. “No way!”

Rowan intervenes yet again, holding one hand out at Kingston and letting the other lightly rest on Pete’s shoulder. The latter startles at the contact, though he doesn’t shift away. In fact, he stays right where he is, content in his protection with a smug, lilted-eye smile. Kingston can only grimace, not so much at the dismay of a second fight he’s lost today, but more so at this sudden lovebird.

“I’m sure what Pete meant was that it’s impolite to let a meal go to waste the way that we nearly did,” Rowan says, ever the mediator. “You wouldn’t want your mother throwing all this in the trash, would you now, Kingston?”

He sighs, staring at the table, which is crowded with enough breakfast foods to be a full course meal. “I wouldn’t.”

“Good.”

“I mean,” Ricky begins again as the banter is about to die down, “it _is_ the most important meal of the day.” He’s sneaking Ox a bit of bacon under the table as he says this, and Sofia can’t help but chuckle when he lifts the piece high above the canine’s head and lets him snap it up when it drops. It goes straight through the dog’s throat of light until it’s on the floor with a pile of other scraps that also failed to reach his stomach.

Ox’s tail wags and tongue lolls in good ignorance. God, she’s never seen anything cuter.

“It is noon!” Kingston cries. “This is brunch, not breakfast!”

“Ricky, would you mind grabbing another chair for Mrs. Lee?” his mother suddenly asks from where she still is at the stove, indirectly trying to prevent another argument. “I got a cheese omelet incoming!”

“On it.” Ricky is out to retrieve it right as Sofia tries to say that she’s fine standing where she is. Ox trails after him despite the short distance, and with that, Kingston’s father moves in, sweeping the mess on the floor into a dustpan swiftly as if it were routine.

“Come on, pop, I’ll get that,” Kingston starts.

“No, no,” Winston insists. “My apartment, my mess.”

 _“Thank you, Mr. March,”_ Victoria says over them in a singsong voice, continuing to cook.

Before Sofia knows it, they all settle into themselves again.

She watches as Kingston squeezes into the banquette next to Pete, arm around him, asking how his bookstore is holding up and is he making sure nothing suspicious is going through that portal of his? Voxes together, there’s never true tension between the two of them. With Phantasma and Populi present, there hasn’t been and there won’t be for a while.

Ricky is back with her chair right as Esther asks if she wants a mimosa.

“Of course I do, girl. It’s noon, isn’t it?”

Esther laughs as she goes for an extra glass on the table. “It is indeed,” she responds, filling the flute up until it’s full and handing it to Sofia.

“Thanks.” She takes a seat, and she is set.

“Well?” Rowan says. “Catch us up, dear. I’m more than sure you’ve got your fair share of stories to tell of that monastery of yours.”

So, she tells them. Cats.

“Cats?” Ricky repeats when she’s done.

“Cats. Not deer.” Esther sounds thoughtful, as though the creatures are a sign.

Pete snickers, then says, “Hey, are they anything like _your_ cat?”

Rowan elbows him hard for that.

“Ow! What the hell?”

Sofia doesn’t need either of them to elaborate. Her first meeting with La Gran Gata is a topic they haven’t let her live down since that day. She’s missed the cracks they take at her, so she almost doesn’t mind. _Almost._ Rowan flashes Pete a look like she is reminding him of something.

What, though?

“Ignore him,” Rowan insists, turning to Sofia without warning as she’s still studying them. In an attempt to hide that, she downs her mimosa.

Kingston notices and chuckles. “I see someone hasn’t changed,” he remarks before knocking back his black coffee.

“What?” Sofia challenges. “Thought I got soft up there?”

“Thought _they were against alcohol_ up there.”

“Not when it’s me.” She can’t keep her smirk still. “Not when I’m First Fist now.”

Everyone’s surprise launches into congratulations immediately. Rowan pours her some more mimosa this time, reaching across the table with a pitcher, and then raises her own champagne glass in a toast. She says something glorious and extravagant, a speech that has the signature touch of Misty Moore, and by the end of it, they all clash their drinks together. It’s a mix of beverages as much as it is a mix of people: Sofia and Rowan with their mimosas, Kingston with his coffee, Esther with her tea, Ricky with his energy drink, Pete with his chocolate milk.

A cheers to her, they say, though more importantly, a cheers to them.

Victoria places a plate in front of Sofia once they all calm down. “Celebratory omelet,” she says warmly, squeezing her shoulders from behind. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

As she thanks her, Esther returns to the original point of the conversation. “So, are you going to do anything about them?”

“The cats?” Sofia ponders that as she slices through the food in front of her, cheese stretching as she parts the halves. “I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t exactly live there anymore. It’s not technically my property.” She shoves a piece into her mouth, cooked egg and melted cheddar hot on her tongue. Delicious. “What would you do?”

“TNR, for starters.”

For someone who loves cats, it’s shocking that Sofia doesn’t follow.

“Hey,” Kingston cuts in smoothly. “How about we catch her up first? Let her get situated with how it is here.”

Esther nods in understanding, though she shoots Sofia a look like they should talk of this later if she’s interested. Oh, she definitely is.

“Yes, let’s hit the town!” Rowan agrees. “Show you the sights, let you see what you’ve missed out on. I mean, this is the first time the Champions of New York have truly hung out since New Year’s Eve. What does that say about us?”

“That we work nine to fives?” Pete suggests as he sips his milk from a straw.

“And graveyard shifts, if you’re feeling it.” Kingston looks like he’s thinking of taking one this week.

“And volunteer work, too!” Ricky chimes in.

Rowan’s frown is funny. “You all make me sound as though I was such a saint.”

“I mean, what’s the thing you do again?” Esther tries. “Workshops, right? And how much do you charge for them a piece?”

“Well, how else would I pay for the penthouse?” She sounds serious.

“That’s real saintly of you, Rowan,” Sofia says honestly.

“I am Ruler of the Faerie Court!” the woman protests. “I have a reputation to uphold!”

“And theatre kids to scam, right?”

Pete gets hit on the shoulder with a dainty hand this time. “It’s not my fault their dreams are so lofty. I’m only further inspiring what they want. That can come with a cost. And anyway, what is it that _you_ do now that lets you talk like this?”

“I’ll have you know that I work at a bookstore,” Pete replies proudly as he turns to Sofia. “Uncommon Knowledge. Off 125th Street.”

“Nice.” She notes that.

They continue to talk like that for a while, not too hung up on how much time they’re wasting in this comfortable space. Victoria and Winston eventually retire to the living room to watch a daytime show, and the drone of the television is a good backdrop to their conversation. Slowly, they consume everything on the table, leaving nothing uneaten. It feels as though they’re feasting for a holiday. Maybe a homecoming such as this could be called that.

A bit of egg, and Sofia’s good to go. “Well, shall we?”

Pete finishes his glass of chocolate milk with a loud slurp, Rowan pops a piece of honeydew into her mouth, Ricky eats his final slice of bacon on his own, and Esther picks the crumbs of a blueberry muffin off her plate.

“We shall,” Kingston says after swallowing the last big bite of his cream cheese slathered bagel, satisfied before he calls out to his parents. “Thanks for brunch, mom and pop! We’ll get out of your hair now.”

* * *

It’s night when Sofia scales the fire escape back into the sky. She’s slightly inebriated, but the buzz is in celebration for once. Something about cats on Staten Island had meant shots on her. Tiptoeing by the refectory on the way to her room now, she is almost in the clear when a stationary silhouette against the windows shift in perspective with a step. She doesn’t process it until she’s past the door. When she does, she nearly crashes to the floor on her way through the threshold.

Luckily, monks only know how to land on their feet.

Righting herself, Sofia goes to turn on the lights. Overhead lanterns drench the dining hall with a dim glow, giving up the shadow.

Bloodied. Bruised. Beautiful.

“Dale?”

The figure glances up.

“Sofia.”

He’s been able to visit the monastery before, in the briefest of moments before he’s dragged away again, so it isn’t a surprise to see him here. What _is_ a surprise is that he’s never been here this late or this long. It seems as though he was waiting here for hours, lingering alone until she’d shown up. Sat at a table, letting his nunchucks dance between his hands, Dale is always a sight for sore eyes, especially in the state he’s in now.

“Jesus Christ, are you alright?”

“Of course I am.” His wince as he moves to stand says otherwise, noticeable all the way across the room. Sofia rushes over to him while he tries to stay steady. She catches him under the arm as he fights to remain on his feet and struggles, though she’s stubborn to let him go so soon.

“Isn’t Heaven supposed to make you invincible or something?” she huffs with the effort.

“Well,” Dale says, laughing a little, “for what it’s worth, I’m not really in Heaven right now.”

They eventually make it into the kitchen by working together. Sofia sobers up from her tipsy swaying some as she helps Dale onto a nearby stool, whose wings awkwardly elongate in an attempt to balance the two of them. Once he relents his weight to the seat, she eases herself out from under him and heads off to gather some things together.

Freezer for an ice pack. Cabinet for a first aid kit. Whenever her husband crashes at the monastery, these are the essentials. She usually gets it ready in advance when he’s coming, so a warning that he was on his way would’ve sufficed, at the very least.

“Hold still,” Sofia says a couple of minutes later when she has everything, having given the pack of ice to Dale so he could press it to his side.

Dale sucks in air through his teeth as she dabs a cloth doused in warm water to the corner of his eyebrow. He listens, though, and stops moving. She supposes she should question why his sensitivity to pain persists, but it isn’t quite the important thing on her mind right now.

“What are you doing here, Dale?” Sofia asks instead. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I would’ve waited up on you.” The cut that she’s tending to currently isn’t too deep. She’s sure stitches aren’t necessary. Still, bandages assuage her worry, so she starts to apply one to his temple.

“Hey, it’s alright. I don’t mind.” Dale shifts under her touch after she pats his head to tell him she’s done there. “What’s that now, though? Does _the_ Sofie Bikes need a warning in advance before her spouse decides to spring a surprise visit on her? Don’t worry. I think they’re gonna let me go easy tonight.”

“First of all, that’s Sofie _Lee_ to you. Second of all, you _think?”_ The brain’s not as best as the gut.

“I got a feeling.” That’s better. “Are you drunk?” That’s worse.

Buzzed, yes, but there’s a big difference. “Maybe.”

“Did you drive home?”

“Walked. You know I always walk.”

“I know you do. I wanted to make sure you knew.” Dale places his hand on the small of her back to bring Sofia in closer. “How are you?”

She notices dried blood where his glasses had dug in and picks them off his face so that she can disinfect the area. “I’m alright. You?”

“Well…” Dale winces when she starts in without warning. “I’m with you now, so I’ve never been better.” He pauses for a considerable amount of time, letting her clean the scrape on his nose in silence before continuing in a significantly lower tone. “Honey, I’m sorry I missed the deer today.”

Sofia frowns. Despite that, it isn’t enough to distract her from the task at hand. “Don’t apologize,” she insists, serious. “I didn’t see deer, anyway.”

“Wait, what?” He leans away, forcing her to focus for a second. She _tsks_ at him, though all the blood is cleared. “You didn’t?”

“No,” Sofia confirms coyly, turning to get another bandage and pinching the bridge of his nose to secure it once she puts it on.

“Okay, come on, tell me,” Dale says.

She then grabs his glasses and perches them where they were. “I want you to guess.”

“I’m always the worst at this game.”

“I saw cats.” Well, that lasted long.

Now that she thinks about it, Sofia feels as though telling the others of this first were rehearsals for this. With Dale, it’s different. As if she were catching him up on something he missed while out working a late hour at the firm, this is a story to tell over plates of chicken cacciatore from the local Italian place and under candlelight, their date night specialty. Not an anecdote she’s recounting to a crowd of acquaintances, threads of detail she has to capture for those to understand or they lose the picture.

The thing is, he gets what she’s talking about because he’s the only other person on the planet that has lived there. Okay, so technically, there were other homeowners before them, but they don’t count. Her family had never come over, not even for the olive branch that was their housewarming, and her friends had been too scared to come over to Staten Island, long before she had gone and burned their home down.

Even if it isn’t in the same state that he remembers, it’s enough to talk about their porch, or what’s left of it, at least. The shaky stairs, the rickety railing, the peeling paint, things they never bothered to fix but always excused because of their respective jobs, are all a testament to their unintentional memorization of it. Even Dale knew it more than she did. He’s the reason house hunting had been so hard.

A porch, he’d insisted. He had a feeling.

His eyes are shining by the end of her story, so stunned at the concept of their house being host to creatures apart from his beloved deer that he can hardly contain himself.

“So,” Dale says now, starting to list them out. “A black one, a white one, a grey one, a tabby, and a Siamese?”

Sofia is on the final cut marring his face, one situated close to his chin. He juts his jaw out so that she doesn’t struggle too much to get it. “Yeah, I think you’re right with those last two,” she replies as she closes in on it, going gentle as she practically sculpts his side features.

He nods, though the movement is minimal. “And you’re serious?”

“Yeah.” She stops, squinting at him questioningly. “Why? You think I’m lying?”

Dale hears his mistake in her words and starts to shake his head with vigor. “No! Never! It’s only that…” He trails off, unsure of how to say the words he thinks until he sets aside his ice pack and puts his other hand behind her, both of them snug at her back. “I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time. It’s been a bit since we last met up, but… it’s nice, is all.”

She softens up in an unexpected understanding, cupping his cheek and placing one more bandage down the curve of his chin. Her thumb runs over it, rubbing circles round and round, and she gets so caught up in it that she starts to lightly hover it over his lips.

“You being here is a big factor in that,” Sofia murmurs, leaning in a little closer.

“Is it?” Dale dares to touch his forehead to hers, his warm with its constant angelic health and hers cold from the chill of outside.

Wordless now, she nods. As she wraps her arms around him, they catch each other in a kind of passionate kiss. Though he is cautious so as not to disrupt the intimate moment too much, Sofia feels as Dale starts to carefully flap his wings and take the two of them into the air. He cradles her close, strong arms refusing to release their hold, and she trusts him because _of course_ she does, this is her husband, after all.

They travel out of the kitchen, leaving the medical supplies to remain on the counter and the pack of ice to melt, and on they float, away from the refectory and through the halls of the monastery. Dale is discreet as he passes room after room in case anyone is up past curfew. Sofia doubts that and doesn’t even bother checking to see where he’s going, too busy pecking kisses down his neck and trying to undo his tie with a single hand. He knows where her room is. Sure, his visits were never this late at night, but she’d shown him around before.

In mere minutes, they end up on the east side, Dale’s wings settling down and Sofia’s toes touching bottom. She tugs him into her room without hesitation and makes sure to shut the door behind him. As he loosens the tie from under his collar, she unclasps the belt at the base of her hips.

He attempts to pin her to the bed, but she beats him to it, sweeping his feet out from under him. In a splay of wings, he lands on her sheets.

The laugh that escapes his lips as he hits the mattress sounds straight from heaven itself. “How do you manage to do that every time?”

She clambers atop him as he asks, straddling him. “You’re an angel!” Sofia says, seeming blameless. “I have to top you somehow!”

Dale shrugs under her. “Well, you got that down, then.”

That causes her to roll her eyes against a grin. “Alright, smartass.” As she takes her hoop earrings out, she catches him staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” he whispers wistfully, though she can clearly tell he is studying her eyes. “You… look like you did the day we met.”

Before she can ask him to elaborate, he wraps his wings around her, and they lose the night to absolute bliss.

* * *

Dale is gone when she wakes.

There’s a note on her nightstand, Sofia notices as she rises to half of her sheets gone cold. It’s neatly folded and tucked under her clippers.

 _Sorry I had to leave so soon,_ it reads. _The angels came right as the sun was up. I decided to go silently so you could get rest. See you when I can. Love you so much. Dale._

God, he was so considerate. She doesn’t know how, especially with those angels. Really, showing up at the monastery without warning to drag her dear spouse off? She couldn’t even imagine it. Sofia thinks of his nunchucks then, the ones made of the same magic Ricky’s axe had held, and she chuckles to herself. Well, if he wanted to, Dale could put up one hell of a fight against them, so she wouldn’t discredit him there.

With that, she’s on her way for the day. For the first time in a long time, Sofia has a plan that extends outside the walls of the monastery and underneath the cloud cover.

She begins by meeting up with Esther in her and Ricky’s apartment in Clinton Hill to catch up and get the rundown on how to deal with the cats.

“TNR stands for Trap-Neuter-Return,” Esther tells her over a cup of chamomile. “It’s actually a rather simple method when it comes to the caretaking of felines, considering the amount of steps is in the name. There are certain logistics to the act of caging them and to the process of spaying or neutering them, though I think that’ll turn into a rhythm for you in no time. What you found was a feral cat colony, correct?”

So, that’s what they were called. “Yeah,” Sofia responds, notetaking with intent and reaching for her own steaming tea after scrawling a couple of things down. “You don’t think that it’s too much, do you?” she asks as she takes a sip. “Trying to do TNR on five cats?”

Esther shakes her head. “Not at all. If anything, it makes sense. There are _so_ many stray cats in New York. The more, the merrier. That said…” Her trailing off causes Sofia to truly stop and lock eyes. “Don’t actively take it upon yourself to search for cats. Five is enough.”

“Alright,” she relents, even though she had yet to argue against it. “Five it is.”

They take a minute to soak in the Monday morning stillness.

“Love the look of the clock tower, by the way.”

Since its face is constructed out of glass, shafts of light dance around the minute and the hour hands as they tick on towards the day’s end. They pour through the panes and illuminate the apartment in the cleanest light.

“Right? Ricky tells me you can’t miss it when you’re on the rooftops.”

“I mean, he’s never wrong.”

After her thorough talk with Esther, Sofia spends the rest of the day doing her own research. What she learns is that she needs to have a schedule nailed down when it comes to these cats. Feeding is a large factor into their routine, so leaving out something for them to eat around the same time each day would help create a habit they could not break. Since money isn’t an issue, she could buy an excess amount of cat food. There are also mentions of holding spaces, which in it of itself is a conundrum based on the state of the house, but she would figure it out.

These hours blur into an inexorable week as she tries to track down a pet clinic in New York that suits her standards. They aren’t set _high,_ she swears. That sort of thinking is where she could run into problems. She only wants a place that she can tell will take care of the cats in the way that she would were she certified. Sadly for her, the last thing she has a clear understanding of is spaying and neutering animals.

This search bounces back and forth between visiting the cats, of course. Now, that is her favorite part of the process.

By perching on the telephone pole nearest to her and Dale’s old house, Sofia has the perfect place to observe the cats from a distance. It isn’t a necessity that she watch them as much as she currently is, yet she does not hesitate to dedicate all the downtime she has to that.

What? She couldn’t get a bit of a break from the chaos of being a Champion of New York?

As First Fist, her work should have been more focused on the city than on the monastery anyway, so it’s a wonder that it took her so long to come down. She thinks about it as she sits on that post, how she has been working so hard to maintain the foundation her mentor had set before he passed the torch to her, that it feels like an explanation of self. Jackson Wei is many things, but he is not someone Sofia lets down.

Staring up at the sky now, overcast obscuring the Order of the Concrete Fist, she knows the wait was worth it.

The cats cozy up to her presence eventually, enough that she gets to linger on her own porch whenever they eat. Crosslegged on the deck, stroking their heads and cooing nonsensical words to them, Sofia is falling in love with these felines. She feels foolish to think that is reciprocated.

There are individual times that get to her.

“This is what I use to fight those motherfuckers,” Sofia tells the black one whenever she summons spectral paws for it to play with. “I hope you know I only stroke you so much since you’re soft,” the woman murmurs to the white one reluctantly after petting it for a full hour. “Yeah, you deserve more, don’t you?” she indulges the Siamese as she feeds it another tin can of cat food for a treat.

“Watching deer here was his favorite.” The brown tabby blinks at her, not following. Sofia doesn’t need it to.

That spell is usually broken when the grey one refuses to come up with its companions and she has to leave for it to eat. Even then, she hardly cares. So, the cat is taking a hot second to warm up to her. Whatever.

One week stretches into a couple of weeks. Sofia’s mother catches her headed down to level ground on more occasions than she can count. It ends up turning into such a thing that she starts getting groceries for her whenever she wants. Not that she minds. Any excuse to get into the city is a good one, especially since she already does the rounds, getting cat food and fighting crime. Something unfortunate is that Astoria is way uptown, so she never gets to swing by La Gran Gata’s bodega for goods, instead buying from ones closer to the bridge. Again, not that she minds. She hasn’t seen her patron in some time. That’s it.

Enough time. Enough patience. Sofia corners her first cat in the backyard shed that had stayed unscathed in the fire she started all that time ago. The black one takes the bait of food within the confines of a cage and gets caught.

 _Adopt the cats,_ Dale leaves in another letter. _I think they could make for nice company._

* * *

They still need names, though.

Sofia was never good at those herself. After all, she had fluctuated from maiden name to married name for a while there. In a single word, she is indecisive. Fortunately for her, she has a clever idea on how to get some without having to go through such a hassle.

She starts on 125th Street.

Uncommon Knowledge is a small bookstore tucked tightly in between two buildings, essentially caught in a nook and cranny of New York. Sofia knows it the second she sees it, reading a wooden sign hanging over her head. The two words are delicately carved in a sort of serif font and inlaid with a dull gold. Another thing outside that has her interest immediately is the tiny library, the tinier door nearly unable to close with how many tradeable books there are within it.

These details are how she can tell. This place is the community’s. No one else’s.

A bell at the entrance chimes with every customer that enters, and Sofia is no exception. As she comes in, she is greeted not only by its ring. Back against the door because she has brought the black cat with her, meaning arms full of feline cargo, while she can’t see who calls out to her, she recognizes the voice.

“Sofia!”

She turns to see Pete tending to the store’s cash register, waving at her while slipping a pile of books into a bag for the person in front of him. Sofia tries not to distract him too much, smiling his way politely as she sidesteps when a couple comes in after her.

Until he’s gotten his way through the short line that has formed at the register, she waits, standing in a spot free of anyone else. It’s cool to watch him at work. Just doing his job, genuinely intrigued by the novels he’s handed to scan the barcodes of, reading out titles and authors and synopses with an honest interest. Pete is the perfect Vox Phantasma, a pure amplifier for his people’s wants.

Eventually, he pries himself from the rush of customers, and a person Sofia assumes is his co-worker slides into his place as he heads over to her.

“You’re here!” he says, a little too loud. “Holy shit!”

They wince together at that. Only the couple that recently arrived overhears Pete, though they reveal a child with them, standing tiny at a table. Luckily, she’s too enraptured by the illustrated book in her hands to be listening. Her mother gives them a look. It isn’t necessarily in malice, more so in mere warning. She and her husband then guide their daughter into the children’s section, notably out of earshot.

“Sorry,” he continues once they’re left alone, scratching his head cheekily. “Working this shift on a couple of coffees. You know me.”

“Boy, do I?” She hefts up the feline in her hands, who meows softly with the movement. “Brought a friend. Hope she’s allowed in here.”

Pete gasps. “No way.” He goes to pet her, and she hisses at the unfamiliar contact at first. As if on cue, some magic curls around his hand, Phantasma’s purple enough to convince her that he is a friend. She practically purrs as he caresses her head. “I mean, yeah, she is. Who _is_ this?”

Sofia shrugs. “Not sure yet. She’s actually sort of why I’m here. Thought I could field some names from you.”

“Me? _Heck_ yeah!”

That is said so emphatically that the mother from earlier catches it even from a distance. She signals an OK to them, and the double thumbs up from the both of them in response is reassuring.

“I am all in,” he hurries to say. “Come with me. There’s a spot in the back that I think you’ll love.”

On that note, Pete escorts Sofia further into Uncommon Knowledge. The sight of exposed brick behind shelves stocked with hardcover and softbound books is absolutely beautiful to her. She can tell that the upkeep here has been for the sake of love.

After weaving their way through people perusing the fiction and the nonfiction sections, they inevitably end up in an open area that seems made for storytelling. The first thing Sofia sees is an intricate carpet unfurled across the floor. Renditions of residents from the Sixth Borough are woven into it, and when she studies them closely enough, they move. The monarch of Nod with their grey complexion, the moon with her face full of makeup, even the rat with its slice of pizza strapped to its body are all there.

Also, some juice stains.

She stops before she steps on one. “Is this a recent addition?” Sofia asks.

He nods. “Thought we could spruce the place up.”

Across the way is an armchair, torn seams remaining unsewn to add character. Lastly, Pete’s personal portal to Nod, the Umbral Arcana presenting it to unaware browsers as a standing mirror. A group of kids are already occupying the space, so they resort to sitting on the rug.

Pete plops down on a section of carpet, and Sofia follows suit. Out of her embrace bounds the black cat.

“So, this is one of the cats you were referring to the other day?” Pete tries to clarify for himself as he gets comfortable on the floor. “Taking up residence in your old backyard?”

“That’s right,” Sofia confirms. It’s then that she decides to break the news to him. “I’m adopting them.”

The surprise on his face is priceless. “Whoa! That’s awesome! Do you think they can handle it up there in the monastery?”

Huh. “I never even thought about that,” she admits. “But I mean, this one could, for sure. She really loves interacting with the spells I can cast.”

“I noticed that!” He summons his familiar, the translucent butterfly floating over the black cat before finding purchase on her nose. At that, she takes notice, suddenly swatting at her face and pouncing into the air after it. “Neat. Maybe she’s been awakened.”

“Into sentience or into the Unsleeping City?”

Pete cackles. “Both.”

The feline tires from chasing the creature fast, but her attention is immediately stolen again by the rug. On it is a depiction of a winking Statue of Liberty with her arm lifted to the Golden Door. She starts to paw the monument’s outstretched torch, as it occasionally flickers like a real fire.

“Understandable. I commissioned it from this artist that was awakened a while back.” He elaborates as he tries to coax the cat into his lap, hand patting New York Harbor. “They heard about what went down with the American Dream on New Year’s Eve and made it as a token of appreciation.”

“It’s lovely.” The compliment is given as she traces the rectangle of light near her thigh, which shimmers slightly. His mention of their Times Square fight has Sofia latching onto a thought. “God, sometimes I can’t wrap my head around the fact that we did that.”

“What? Fought capitalism and fucking won?” Pete surprisingly makes sure to lower his volume when he says that.

“Yeah, that,” she answers sarcastically, though she technically can’t tell him he’s wrong.

His laugh is clutched chest and shut eyes. Not even a sound. Only the open-mouthed impression of one. “I get what you mean,” he admits after that, calming down. “I was a completely different person around this time last year. If you had come up to me and told me I was suddenly supposed to rule the dreaming half of New York, I would have asked you what you were on and if I could take some.”

“Exactly.” He gets it. “I’d drink a liquor store dry on that line of logic. In fact, I’m still considering that…”

That’s where they differ. “Oh, not me.”

“Really?” She doesn’t mean it skeptically. Sofia’s belief in him is what causes her brows to lift at all.

He reaches into his coat and roots around until his hand lands on what he wants. From out of his pockets comes a bona fide sobriety coin. “It comes time for change. With drugs, at least. Sure is rough, but better than how I used to be. You should try it. Come with me to a meeting sometime.”

“Congratulations!” That is genuine. “And sure… sometime.” That is unconvincing.

Whether Pete picks up on that or not, he doesn’t say. Instead, he continues with “Dude, do you ever remember that we both _died?”_

 _“Yes._ How could I forget? I fucked my husband for the couple of seconds I was down for the count.”

That gets Pete to launch into a real fit of laughter, one too contagious for Sofia not to catch.

“We have to stop this,” Pete manages to heave out. “I refuse to let this _great_ establishment get a bad review on Yelp because somebody hears you.”

“You started it!” Sofia feels that she should point out, but she obliges by settling down. “Okay, if you want to table this conversation so badly, then why don’t you try giving her a name?” She gestures to the cat.

It’s as if it all comes flooding back to Pete, why they’re here in the first place.

“A name! Duh!”

As he forces himself to stay on track, Sofia can see that he really tries to concentrate, especially when his familiar vanishes from view. Pete hums “A name…” thoughtfully to himself and thrums his fingers on the rug as he studies the cat closely. He then scans the shelves surrounding them on all sides, seeking help from the covers and spines of books. His eyes snag on a title eventually.

“I got it,” he says, grin growing with the thought. “Hold on.”

In one swift motion, he is on his feet and headed off into the fantasy section, which is conveniently situated near his mirror. Sofia gazes after him, intrigued over whatever he’s been inspired by, and it seems he also has the cat’s interest as she tries to scurry off in his direction.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” She gently catches her by the midsection and raises her up, slender body elongating as her front half is lifted to face the woman. Sofia really gives her a good look when she does that, stroking her jet black fur and admiring her sleek coat, even under the adjusted low light of the bookstore. All her features at such sharp angles, it is as if they could cut like a knife. The cat stares at her, eyes ringed golden, and there is an unsaid understanding that yes, she is magical, and no, there is nothing else to it.

Pete is back with impeccable timing as Sofia lowers the feline onto her haunches. In his hands is a novel, which he thumbs through as if he were scouring its pages for a particular chapter. “I’m reading this sick book right now, and I highly recommend it,” he explains, infusing some of his salesperson spirit into those last words. “It’s technically the second one in what I’m assuming is a series, but you know, whatever, right? I could get you a signed copy. The author’s a New York native, so I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Sofia can tell that he really wants to cut to the chase. “Sure, hook me up with it,” she says to try to help him continue on.

 _“Anyway,_ there’s a character in it that looks like your cat.” Right as Pete says that, he lands on what he wants and lights up in excitement. “Here! See?”

He turns the open book over to her, and Sofia is met with an illustration of a bipedal feline, cunning in appearance and shrouded in shadow. Sure, she is acutely aware of the fact that she has seen this species before, these tabaxi, roaming the streets as strays themselves and sometimes even bodega cats as well. Still, she is more than sure she would know by now whether the cat with her is sentient or not. The resemblance is uncanny, though.

Underneath her is a name.

“You should call her Kalina.”

It’s as if something clicks into place when he says that. Surprising no one, the black cat before them lifts her head, as if responsive to it.

That was easier than she thought. “Kalina it is.”

After that, Sofia decides that she, and Kalina, should take off, telling Pete that she’s thinking of hitting up Astoria and seeing La Gran Gata.

“Astoria?” Pete repeats. It sounds as though the mention of her patron throws him off more. “Do you not know…?”

She frowns. “What?”

He is too nervous to tell her directly, she can already see. “It shouldn’t be me that tells you,” Pete ends up saying, seeming to decide that honesty is the best policy. “We both know you deserve better than that. Talk to Rowan.”

* * *

It’s one thing to go to Misty’s penthouse. It’s another thing to go to Rowan’s penthouse.

Misty Moore was a minimalist. Sofia remembers that much. It was clear the first time she emerged out of her hall closet to glass windows and white walls. Granted, she’d been crawling her air ducts before then, so the place paled in comparison to what was probably the dirtiest part of the building. Still, she could tell when someone had a theme to commit to, and that was hers.

Cream-colored carpeting over wood-finished flooring. Furniture where the corners cut themselves nice and neat, whether at the backs of sofas or at the edges of tables. Decorations in neutral tones, sparse yet enough to flaunt her wealth. There is an elegance to it that Sofia did not envy. Instead, she adored it.

She can’t forget that she used to be her idol.

Rowan Berry, then, is a maximalist. When Sofia pops the very same vent open a few afternoons after her visit further uptown to Pete, all of her senses are absolutely bombarded. In this tiny closet space alone, door unceremoniously swung open, she can see enough colors to blow a whole spectrum clear out of the water.

The commotion is cause enough for Rowan to come out of a room further down the hall. She sees Sofia yet doesn’t exactly seem surprised that she’s here, despite her being sprawled out across her floor. If anything, she’d been expecting her, an appointment put on her calendar.

“Darling, you could have come in through the entrance,” she says as she starts to approach her, sundress sweeping to show her walking barefoot across clean carpet, until she stops at the point it turns to filth where the air duct had coughed out. “Seen the lobby, ridden the elevator, made a whole thing out of it. I would have rung you up. You can make a grand entrance without getting creative.”

Sofia shakes her head where she lies, hair forming some curls at her cheek and her neck. “Not when I have company.”

On that note, she reaches into the vent and reveals who she has with her. Emerging in her grasp is the white cat. She’d been an easy catch in comparison to Kalina and maybe the ideal when it came to wanting beginner’s luck. That was never Sofia’s speed, though.

As she goes to set her down, Rowan flicks her wrist and dissipates all the dust dirtying up the area with a dismissive spell. “Is this who I think it is?” she coos, unafraid to put a hand forth and pet the creature. Fur surprisingly immaculate in comparison to the woman taking care of her, she reciprocates the touch with a soft purr, eyes slit shut in content.

“If you think it’s someone that would not abide by your building’s no-pets policy, then you would be correct,” Sofia deadpans. Sadly, Rowan is too distracted by the cat to laugh. “She is, though,” she continues, knowing what she meant. “I was wondering if you would want to help me name her.”

“Would I? Yes!” Rowan sounds ecstatic. “Are you adopting her?”

She nods, now wordless from the floor. At this point, Sofia’s slowly lifting herself onto her elbows, but she’s also easing herself into a position meant to mock. One hand under her chin, other hand on hip, high heels cocked. The beat of silence is enough for Rowan to glance at her. All she earns is an eye roll for her pose.

“Where are my manners?” the woman wonders aloud sarcastically. Sofia shrugs, and they laugh together at that. “Let me help you up.” Rowan lends a hand forth, but not before scooping up the white cat into the crook of her arm.

“Thanks,” Sofia says, finally on her feet, brushing off her corduroy coat. She nudges Rowan as she gestures around. “So… can I get the grand tour?”

“Of course! Follow me. I guess I _have_ redone some things since you were last here.”

That is an understatement. As they head down the hall, Sofia is already amazed by how much Rowan has managed to cram onto once nearly bare walls. The high art that is a leftover from Misty’s more refined taste is now crowded out by other pieces, more abstract and more arguable. A lot of it looks like art lifted from the streets, off local artists scantly trying to make a living. You could cry Banksy and that’s what this would be.

They turn a corner into the main space, and Sofia is met with even more of this. Intricate masterpieces, large hangings and whole tapestries, adorn a wall painted a pure marigold. To the sides of it are floor-to-ceiling windows with curtains in descending shades of mango and tangerine. The sectional sofas have been replaced by velvet loveseats dyed a deep red. These surround an antique table cluttered with miscellaneous decor.

Playbills are spread out across it as if they were coffee table books, selfies from Ricky’s phone and Polaroids from her Broadway workshops sit in picture frames, and a flourish of flowers acts as a centerpiece. Sofia can only assume it’s from Pete, considering the sap he’s turned into lately.

“God, this is gorgeous,” Sofia finally says after a breathless moment of absorbing it all. “You really outdid yourself.”

“Misty, you mean,” Rowan insists. “I outdid Misty. Thank you! Honestly, I don’t know how I ever lived differently.”

That’s something to unpack, Sofia senses as Rowan heads into the kitchen. Nothing new to the woman who has lived god knows how long. It’s interesting, though. The only memory of Midsummer Nights that she has in here is a poster, original cast signatures looping across its glossy surface in markered silver and gold. It’s that detail, taking up space on a corner of wall, obscured by the cover of her grand piano, that she can tell.

Rowan doesn’t do well with the remnants from her former selves.

“This kitten’s looking a little famished,” she remarks from inside the kitchen. Sofia hurries after her before she notices she’s straggling behind.

The kind of kitchen Rowan has is much comfier and cozier than the one she recalls. Gone are the granite countertops and the stainless steel appliances. Instead, there’s a butcher block look on the tops of cabinets, painted in a peach hue. The retro fridge she’s rummaging through when Sofia arrives is a similar shade of salmon. Really, a lot of what she has seems familiar, only slightly off, as if she had bought them from the same catalog but in a different color. There’s a chaos to it that remains consistent. She can appreciate that.

But when she closes the refrigerator with a glass bottle of milk in her hand, Sofia can’t let that slide.

“Fun fact, most cats are actually lactose intolerant.” She can tell she’s done too much research. This is one of the rare times she doesn’t care.

Rowan hardly sounds as though she heard her, still taking a teacup and a saucer down from a cupboard anyway. “Are they?”

“Yes,” Sofia insists. This is a lost cause, isn’t it?

“Well, we’ll take a chance on this one, won’t we now?”

It is.

Meanwhile, the cat in question is standing prim and proper on the ceramic tile floor, completely unaware of her current predicament.

Sofia can’t stop her once she pours the milk into the cup. She even goes so far as to try it for herself. _“Really?”_ she says when Rowan sips loudly.

“It’s not spoiled,” Rowan notes. When Sofia doesn’t immediately respond, she sighs. “That’s a good thing.”

With a groan, Rowan gives up the argument, gracefully going to sit on the floor and to redirect her focus. The cat seems to be pleased by the opportunity of being fed, so she obediently seats herself on a tile and tilts her head high as she is poured a plate to drink. Once the saucer is full and is set down at her feet, she laps the liquid up, quite satisfied with its taste. Sofia watches on skeptically, waiting for the second she wretches.

“See?” Rowan motions to the cat when she doesn’t. “She loves it. I don’t understand why you were so worried.”

“Just because she _could_ be lactose intolerant doesn’t mean she _would_ reject whatever you feed her.” At that, Sofia extracts a small can of cat food from her jacket pocket, which she has started to carry with her at all times, and messes with the tab on its top a bit. Just in case.

“Let her have it,” Rowan says, waving her arguments away. She then pats a free area of floor for Sofia, trying to find the peace again. “Sit with us.”

Reluctantly, Sofia does as she’s told. “Are you about to lecture me?”

“Oh, _no._ You are the last woman I would try that with.” Sofia feels her shift to more serious wondering. “Why are you _really_ here?”

“Besides providing _you_ with the privilege to name _my_ cat and setting _her_ up for a horrible time with her stomach later?”

Rowan nods, not even remotely reacting to the latter. “Besides that.”

Better late than never. “Pete told me to talk to you.”

It’s weird, the way Rowan blanches. “What about?” she asks, attempting to school some calmness into her tone.

“I’m not sure.” Sofia can tell something’s up, so of course she’s trying to get it out of Rowan. Hey, at least she’s honest, she really _isn’t_ sure. “Why?”

She exhales, exhausted when she murmurs, “I think he knows.”

“Knows what?” It seems Sofia’s caught her with that, judging by her shocked reaction, so before Rowan can scramble for a lie, she just stops her. “Come on, spit it out, _Ruler of the Faerie Court._ You can trust me.”

“Speaking of that…” Rowan wrings her hand, seeming nervous about broaching the subject. “I’ve been having a lot of thoughts about it lately, my returned ties to the world I came from and whatnot, and it’s funny.”

“What?”

“We, or well, _I_ at least _say_ I’m the Faerie Court’s ruler, and yet it never _feels_ as though I am. For someone who claims to govern over the Seelie, the Unseelie, and everyone else in between, I never make or keep up any appearances there. Maybe that’s usual in _this_ world, but in _that_ world… it’s an expectation that my presence constantly be a show of strength.”

Sofia understands where this is headed. Rather push Rowan to her point, she poses a question. “And you’re not quite meeting that quota?”

“Not as much as I could be, and that is putting it lightly. Pete’s portal helps, but the more trips I make, the less people welcome me on the other side. Respect can only amicably carry on for so long, which is unfortunate, but fathomable. Heavy is the head that wears the crown… or pin… I suppose.” Rowan readjusts the symbol on her chest as she comments on that. “Titania always wore this baby better.”

“Stop that,” Sofia disagrees. “You and I could tell that crown was not that fashionable. Besides, you have those shoes.”

The woman chuckles at that. “Not currently. A representative of the Seelie made me give them up as collateral in case they found a more suitable owner.” Her correction has Sofia raising her brows in surprise. “Luckily, that has yet to happen, but that doesn’t stop the clock from ticking.”

That settles that, then. “So, you’re homesick and you’re thinking of headed there for good,” Sofia sums up.

Rowan’s nose scrunches at those last choice words. “For good is a _large_ ask. At least until my next renewal.” Still, there is a significant relief reflected on her face when she hears Sofia voice exactly what she feels, enough of it to crack a joke. “Never thought the Upper West Side would stop suiting me, did you? Rest assured, there _is_ a whole palace waiting for me.”

“My point stands. _Real_ saintly.”

As Rowan laughs, a little like a tinkling bell, the cat finishes off the saucer of milk and looks to her curiously with baby blue eyes blinking. They notice, so Sofia pops open the tin in her hands and holds it out to her, while Rowan brushes her pelt when she pads past.

“The days of Misty Moore are long gone,” Rowan decides to contemplate out loud, chanting the words, almost telling a tale. “Along with Sondheim, she will be remembered by the Broadway community for years to come. Rowan Berry, however, needs to regain her bearings. Stop putting up with the past, lingering on what was. It comes time for change.”

Sofia frowns at how familiar that phrase sounds. “I support you,” she says, ignoring its tug of two thoughts. That _it comes time for change_ is starting to sound kind of like a mantra, and that Rowan is leaving. _Really_ leaving. “One thing, though. You haven’t told Pete any of this?”

Her wince is rough to see. “To be honest, I’d been hoping to avoid it altogether. Cruel, I can admit that much, but considering his situation with Priya… I don’t see the both of us faring as friends in the future if I let him go gently. It’s me, it’s not him. We’re too much of everything for each other. I’ve had too many lovers, he hasn’t had enough.” The pause before what she ends with is palpable. “He deserves someone better than me.”

Rowan, outrageous as she is, has a heart.

“If you want…” Sofia starts to offer.

“No.” She’s made up her mind. “Let me be the one.”

“He doesn’t suspect a thing, if it’s any consolation to you.” Belatedly, Sofia thinks of that bouquet. Not a thing at all.

“Wait. If that isn’t what he sent you here to talk about, what is?”

Cat’s out of the bag. Not to be ironic. “Well… since it is honesty hour… La Gran Gata,” Sofia confesses. “He got all dodgy about her when I said I wanted to swing by the bodega the other day.”

When Rowan runs a hand through her hair, she really worries. “What a day for news.” Bad, she bets. “There was talk that they were closing it.” She’s right. “Suspicions were confirmed when Pete went apartment hunting in Astoria one week and saw signs hung up.”

What? “Is there a reason why?” There is an unsaid desire for _a reason_ to be a physical one, that Sofia can punch and kick and beat the shit out of.

It sinks in when she shakes her head that there is no real threat. Only time. “Sometimes, bodegas go out of business. It isn’t a common occurrence, but it also isn’t entirely unheard of. Sofia, I’m so sorry. We weren’t intentionally withholding it from you. If anything, we thought that the topic was sore.” She thinks back to the breakfast, no, the _brunch,_ and the elbowing. “Also, that you still had contact with her. Do you not?”

“Not sure. She hasn’t shown herself to me in some time. I thought it was because she was busy.” It scares Sofia, how softly she whispers her words. “But I can still do this.” She curls her hand harshly, and an astral projection of a cat’s paw appears around it, light still strong.

“A good sign,” Rowan discerns. Whether she’s trying to sound optimistic or she’s telling the truth, though, Sofia isn’t sure. “You need to go to her.”

She nods. It is in a rush, then, that Rowan ushers her to her feet. She takes the teacup and the saucer to put into the sink and throws the now emptied can of cat food away. Meanwhile, Sofia stoops over and strokes the white cat to keep her calm, though it is more a measure for her than the feline. She is unsure if she should bring her, considering the journey could begin to get really rough.

Rowan makes up her mind for Sofia. “Leave her.”

With that, she heads to the door, deciding to take advantage of rooftop access in her departure.

Halfway out without a goodbye, Sofia remembers something and turns. “Hey!” she says from the hall. “You never named her.”

She sees that Rowan has her hand wrapped around the glass bottle from before, studying it so intensely that Sofia almost abandons her to it.

But she has one.

“Primsy.”

* * *

She streaks across Central Park, travels over the tops of the buildings in the Upper East Side, and cuts through the Queensboro Bridge to get there.

The bodega sits on the corner of Steinway Street, right beside the stairs to the subway station. Even from however many stories high she is, Sofia can already see the signs Rowan mentioned from a roof, ones saying they are closing up shop. The sight of them stings.

Sofia swoops down a fire escape and springs off an awning at the front of a building in order to cross the street, Umbral Arcana contouring behind her so as to hide the heroic leap. She hardly stumbles when she lands. Instead, she hits the concrete as pedestrians clear out.

As she straightens herself out and dusts herself off, Sofia peers into the store, desperately trying to see where La Gran Gata is. It takes her a solid second, but something about that makes the relief flooding into her system when she does find her feel a lot better.

There, sat at the back of the bodega, is the brindled cat herself. She lounges on the display case that holds the Key to the City, guarding it and greeting customers as they go up and down the aisles, like nothing is wrong.

“Oh, thank Christ,” Sofia mumbles beneath her breath before going in.

The atmosphere of the bodega shifts as she sets foot inside, a dreamscape spilling into the corners of the store. Shoppers fade away as the Unsleeping City seeps in, raw Umbra bubbling all around, unbeknownst to them.

La Gran Gata seems to sense Sofia’s presence as she enters. “Mija?” she murmurs from afar. “Is that you?”

The woman politely shoulders her way past people, replying “Yes, it is,” when she reaches the other end of the store, where a space of stars has puddled up on the linoleum floor. “Hi.” Sofia offers her a fine chin scratch for a more formal hello. “Are you alright?”

“Of course, Sofia,” she answers with a swish of her tail. “Why would I not be?”

Well. Not the answer she anticipated. “For starters, the bodega is closing. I won’t say I’m offended I wasn’t told, but a warning would’ve been nice.”

“Ah.” La Gran Gata nods her head sagely as though she understands. “Yes, that.”

When she doesn’t continue that train of thought, instead choosing to close her heterochromatic eyes and relish in some unseen bliss, Sofia can’t help but to be blunt. “Okay, the fact that you aren’t freaking out as much as I am over this is killing me. You want to tell me what’s going on, or…?”

Quite amused at the question, La Gran Gata gives her a toothy grin, all golds and ivories, and says, “Sofia, walk with me.” She then pounces off the case and heads towards the Frozen Foods section. With no other choice, Sofia forces herself to follow.

Once there, she and La Gran Gata face the see-through refrigerator doors and take a moment to soak it in. They get a good showcase of microwaveable foods, soft drinks, and frozen desserts. Sofia starts to wonder if she wants some cheap wine from here when suddenly, the reflection in the glass slowly changes. It still looks like a bodega when it stops, but not this specific one. Rather than have a row of chips at her back, there is now a counter with a different owner at the cash register, working checkout for a few customers.

“Whoa,” Sofia whispers, double checking behind her to make sure she wasn’t teleported. “What are we looking at, La Gran Gata?”

Pleased by her curiosity, the cat begins to purr out an explanation.

“As you know, the Unsleeping City is host to many places that a normal person cannot see with the naked, unawakened eye. Some of those exist in the endless expanse of Nod. However, not all are housed there, as they can neither be contained nor confined. My bodega is one such location.” La Gran Gata pads towards the glass and presses a paw against it, which causes her reflection to ripple, the way water would. “The Bodega of Wonders has forever transcended the bounds of any singular bodega in New York. While there will come a day in which this physical one must meet its end, the essence of the metaphorical one that resides in our collective, restless consciousness will continue to permeate throughout the entire city forever.”

Those sure are words. Sofia has got it figured out, though. “So, even though _this_ bodega closes, _your_ bodega doesn’t?”

“Precisely.”

Okay. She is still stuck on one thing. “I don’t understand why you didn’t come to me when they made the decision. I wondered where you were.”

La Gran Gata finally looks regretful. “It is unfortunately a drawback to this. I am restricted to the confines of what is left in my charge and therefore could not go where you were. As the bodega recedes into itself, so too do I. My magic is in need of… what is it you humans say? A recharge?”

Sofia snorts softly. “A recharge, yeah.” She gets down on her knees and lets La Gran Gata lick her hand. “Does this mean you’re disappearing?”

If a cat could frown, it is what happens when she hears her say that. “Hush. I have not faded yet, have I?” She fluffs out her fur with that statement.

“No!” Sofia reassures the feline, though she hears her wording. “You said yet, though. Will you?”

“There is a chance.” She hates that. “Do not fear, Sofia,” La Gran Gata goes on, lighter in tone. “If your magic goes, then I go. Let it be your sign.”

Boy, would she. When she brings that up, Sofia holds her other hand high, and a spectral paw envelopes it.

“Just marvelous, mija,” La Gran Gata praises. She always loves it when her patron does it, but something about this time lends the devotion a little hesitation. The cat is too calm. There is still a chance she could be gone with the bodega, could she not? Before she can press on with her concerns, though, the moment passes. “Now, you ought to get going.”

“What? Why?”

The seams of the Waking World start to stitch themselves around Sofia. As La Gran Gata returns to where she was, she gives her a knowing look.

“You have cats to catch.”

* * *

So, she continues to catch them.

The Siamese is who she ends up with now. It’s a shock to Sofia that it took this long, considering the cat’s particular love for food. Part of the process that comes with trapping these felines is not feeding them the day before they’re to be taken in. It makes them more inclined to crawl into the spaces that they aren’t usually comfortable with when the day after arrives with food again.

If anything, Sofia can see this cat come running in her head, the scent of fish and meat hitting his nose. Yet she can also see this cat holding himself at a distance, the claustrophobia kicking in when he notices where that delicious food is really trying to take him.

She knows her cats. Who could she be without that?

When he is finally in his cage, groveling over getting caught, Sofia fishes out a can of cat food and feeds it to him as a treat. He gets over his fear.

Now, she is on her way home with him. Since the clinic she brings all the cats to is located in another borough, she always returns riding the ferry, wind in her hair and carrier in her hand. Sofia is headed into the Whitehall terminal when she sees them.

Ricky, Kingston, coming from the direction of a Helping Hands.

“Ricky! Kingston!” she calls out.

Whether they are deep in a conversation, she can’t tell from how far she is. And anyway, they drop it once they hear her, then see her.

“Sofia!” Ricky shouts back, breaking away from Kingston and sprinting over to her. “Good to see you again!”

“And to what does Manhattan owe the pleasure of a visit from the lovely Mrs. Lee today?” Kingston asks as he strides to them.

Sofia raises the cage with the Siamese up as her answer. In glistens Ox at that, a sudden steed summoning as a result of their shared interest. As he peers into the trap, so too does his dog, getting on hind legs and nosing the tight bars to get a better sniff of the cat’s scent.

“He had an appointment.” Her explanation is straightforward enough. “Got neutered today. You know how it works.”

“Totally,” Ricky says, which is unexpected, since Sofia was thinking more about Kingston’s bulldog than anything. “I got Ox neutered.”

There is a beat where she tries to absorb that, and Sofia can tell by the incomprehensible expression that Kingston has, he is in the same boat. Thoughts go through her mind in an attempt to piece together the possibility of a canine construct of light getting neutered. It is indescribable. Even the Dalmatian whines to deter them from thinking too hard about it.

“And now?” Kingston obliges, wisely deciding not to broach that subject.

Sofia follows his lead. “Headed home. She cranes her head in the direction of the terminal then, in time to hear the ferry sound from the harbor. So sure it would go on without her, she thinks to take off abruptly when she gets a better idea. “Actually… do you want to come with?”

Her cat _does_ still need a name.

It seems Kingston is so close to making up an excuse to get out of going that it actually hurts Sofia to hear Ricky cut in.

“Yeah! We weren’t doing anything else today, anyway!”

The inclusion of Kingston into his decision is truly gutting. He looks like he’s genuinely devastated, yet he can’t talk his way out of it this time.

Sofia can only giggle at his struggle as she gestures them inside. “Got anything to argue?”

He sure can try, yet with Ricky’s gaze innocently on his, it is worthless to.

“Oh… what the hell?” Kingston grunts out, giving up. “I might as well. It can’t be _that_ bad over there.”

“It _isn’t_ that bad,” Sofia corrects him candidly. “Let’s get going, then.”

They all enter the terminal and manage to board with no problem, though Sofia notices a clock as they head to the back of the ferry. Despite it being a couple of minutes past the scheduled departure, there had still been time for them to get on. Sofia hardly puts the free fare for the three of them past her. Ricky’s dog not being caged but still getting let on is even more obvious, but she then remembers what Liz told her and lets it go.

Kingston really does rub off on those close to him.

* * *

Staten Island from the view of a ferry is far different than it is from a monastery. Shrouded in a thin veil of fog, with the Verrazzano to the narrowing south, its silhouette against the early evening horizon is not as inviting as it could be when the bay is more clear to see.

As they near the shore, the foghorn of the ferry goes off, and the lights within the Staten Island terminal gleam through the mist.

In no time, they are docked and beginning to disembark.

“Here we are. Welcome to Staten Island.” Sofia is first off the ferry as she says this.

“Exactly as I remember it!” Ricky is second, excitement escaping him in bounds. He looks like he’s happy to be here. All things considered, he’s been here before, back when she was still a reckless incendiary and he was still a noble firefighter. So, he’s used to the place being more than its fair share of stereotypes.

Kingston, however, is not.

Sofia is already headed away when Ricky calls out for her to wait a second. When she turns, she scoffs at what she sees.

“Seriously?” she yells.

Kingston is in the process of stepping off the ferry carefully when she doubles back, tenderly cradling her cat in his arms and close to his chest, as though he were scared the ground would swallow them both whole. She had released the Siamese once she noticed how nervous he was when the ferry left, and the waters under them started to rock where they stood.

Look, if the Vox Populi could conceal a Dalmatian that spent the entire ride licking up the salty spray of the bay, he could also conceal a freed feline. Only now, it reads more as an excuse to steal him away.

“What?” he shouts. “I can’t be cautious?”

Well, she never is, so she guesses he could make up for her lack. “You could at least be a bit more subtle about it,” Sofia sighs, resigning herself.

He eases out of his shuffled footing eventually. “Alright, where to?” Kingston asks, coming up beside her and trying a smile to truce.

For her response, she knocks his shoulder in acceptance. “Spaghetti’s,” Sofia answers. “I don’t think either of you have been there, but basically, there’s a building with a fire escape across the street from it. That’s the only way to the monastery.” She takes to looking at the skyline for it. “Actually, I think you can see it from here.”

And they can. Ascending above the buildings in the near distance is metal staircase after metal staircase, guard railings their sole security.

“Wait.” Kingston’s swallow is absolutely audible. “We gotta climb that?”

“What?” Sofia teases. “Scared of heights?”

“I am _not_ scared of heights.” He is embarrassingly fast when rectifying the error. “I am scared of rickety fire escapes that are no longer attached to the side of any sort of structure and go higher than the Empire State Building. There is a difference.”

“You’re scared of heights…” Ricky whispers as he walks up to Kingston’s other side. The latter is about to launch back into corrections when he hears that comment, but the former cuts him off before he can continue. “And honestly, that’s okay! We can work through that! I used to have a fear of getting burned, but hey, I faced it and look at me now!”

Out of all that, Sofia focuses on a single thing. “You had a fear of getting burned?” she backtracks.

“Look, when your mom takes the wok away after cooking you and your sister dinner, and you are curious as to how it warmed up your noodles, you would also plant your palm down directly on a stove.”

“Oh my god, Ricky.”

“Hold on,” Kingston finally intervenes, raising a hand to silence the two of them. “How exactly did you overcome your fear?”

“Heat lamps. Firefighting academy.”

Kingston puts his head in his hand. The Siamese in his other hand meows with worry.

“That’s it. I’m going.”

When he tries to take the cat on board the ferry with him, Sofia rushes the older man. “Wait! It’s not the worst. Ricky and I will keep you safe.” She remembers then, why she brought them here. “You can think up names for my cat while we work our way up.”

That is all it takes to make Kingston pause and turn to her. “You want us to name your cat?”

“Sure. Pete and Rowan already have, so why don’t you two team up?”

“Yes!” Ricky accepts enthusiastically. “I would love to.” He reaches a hand out to rub the cat under the chin. “How about Bear? For how furry he is.”

“Hell no.” Kingston rejects it immediately, an indirect admission that he would join in. “None of that Ox nonsense. You are not naming another animal after… another animal.” He strokes the Siamese’s head, and Sofia can tell the cat is truly spoiled with contact. “How about Bleecker?”

“Dude…” Ricky lets that sit. “That’s bleak.”

Sofia snickers. “Keep it up while we walk.”

They do, suggesting enough names to throw onto a lengthy list as they travel to Spaghetti’s. Jogging past pedestrian signs and jaywalking away on roads, the three of them navigate Staten Island until the fire escape grows close enough to touch. When it inevitably towers above them, they are on the curb across the street, Spaghetti’s behind them. The remarks Sofia hears from the others are interesting.

“Wait, Spaghetti’s is a bakery?” Kingston studies its classic cursive neon sign. “What a misleading name.”

“I mean, baked spaghetti is a thing,” Ricky replies sagely.

“Boys?” Sofia interrupts before they get hung up on it, though she does see something underneath the big sign, an advertisement for a one bedroom above the business. “You can find out later if it’s a restaurant, a bakery, or both. But first, we climb.”

The base of the fire escape is obscured by a couple of open dumpsters. Against it being an abandoned building, the things are still overflowing with trash, preventing easy access to the entrance. Yet Sofia has no trouble shoving her way through, so used to the obstacles of garbage that leaping up and grabbing the ladder overhead is nothing. She hangs from the bottommost rung for a breather, white-knuckled until she can heave herself up with pure strength. Once she has gotten to the initial level of the fire escape, she kicks the ladder down for them to follow.

Ricky looks ready to climb, so he starts to scale it without a word. All they need now is Kingston.

“Hey, Kingston?” Sofia calls down after a good while of waiting. “What’s the holdup?”

The Vox Populi looks like he’s loitering, which isn’t ideal, considering state laws.

“I can’t reach,” he protests, which at first sounds to Sofia as though he truly had a fear to face.

However, the Siamese he holds seems to be a whole bundle on his own. This usually isn’t a problem for Sofia, since the cats before stayed in their cages for a safe and comfortable ride to the top. Either he is a good excuse to get out of going or he really will be worth the fuss.

“I got you,” Ricky says, not even hesitating to slide down to the ground again. “Need help up?”

Before Kingston can get an answer out, Ricky is hoisting the man and the cat onto his shoulders. All he has for him is shouts of confusion.

“You know what? This is not ideal!” When Ricky staggers under his weight, Kingston yelps. Even the Siamese yowls. _“Not ideal!”_

He is high enough to grasp the lowest rung of the ladder, yet he is inept at going one-handed. Thinking fast, Sofia swings herself off the banister and hitches her heels between the bars at the last second so as to stay somewhat suspended in the air. “Pass him!” she instructs.

His hesitation is how it nearly turns to shit. When Kingston does not immediately get a hold of the ladder to steady them, Ricky suddenly careens to the side, and Sofia’s eyes widen as the older man lurches towards her at an alarming speed. Neither of them thick twice when the cat nestled in his arms catapults into her outstretched ones. Freed, Kingston finally flails a hand for purchase. He catches himself in time.

“Oh, I _hate_ Staten Island!” he shouts when he is safe.

“I said I got you,” Ricky repeats as he lifts Kingston’s feet onto the rungs of the ladder.

 _“You_ did,” Kingston reassures him. “This place did _not.”_

Sofia eases herself over the railing as they find their way up, pecking a kiss on the Siamese’s forehead for staying safe before handing him back over to Kingston. “This is not Staten Island’s fault,” she tells the man, who is too busy cooing to the cat that they are finally reunited.

“Whatever,” he waves her off. “Take us home.”

They start taking the steps at that, slowly working their way up the fire escape. The building it is attached to is already a couple of stories high, so having a wall at their side works as good leeway until it is gone and they are _really_ in it, nothing except this emergency exit to keep them from falling. It is freeing to Sofia, in the most convoluted sense, having the wind through her hair in all directions at this height.

Though Kingston is careful as ever, having caught his comment on how surprisingly stable the structure is, she feels he is warming to it. Meanwhile, Ricky rattles off more names for the cat. The suggestion of Bleecker earlier gets them on a good track for New York ones.

“Clinton?”

“No. That’s like me calling him Harlem. You’re thinking too broad. Brighton?”

“The beach? Maybe. Astoria?”

“That’s not bad,” Sofia encourages them, thinking of La Gran Gata.

“Great. Ricky, keep that in mind.”

“Got it.”

The two of them continue on that track for a while as they get stories and stories higher. Suggestions peter out as the air grows thinner, though the magic of the city replenishes the supply once they notice. Sofia is rounding the corner on yet another landing when she asks Kingston something.

“Hey, are you ever gonna tell me what that one night with Liz was all about?”

Kingston halts, and since he is bringing up the rear, Sofia and Ricky have to stop, too. “What? Why do you need to know so bad? Am I not allowed to take my lady on a date?”

“A date! See? That’s all I wanted.” They carry on.

“What about you, Ricky?” Kingston decides to say, liking this tangent now that the heat is off him. “Have you taken Esther out on the town recently?”

“Yeah!” he responds. “I took her to Gramercy Park the other night.”

“You have a key?” Sofia knows those are hard to come across.

 _“Technically,_ the Occult Society has a key. I thought it was worth the steal. It comes time for change.”

“My man. Doing it all for love. It _does_ come time for change.” Satisfied, Kingston redirects his fire. “Now you, Sofia. Any date nights with Dale the Archangel?”

“Dale the _Angel,”_ she corrects him, trying to distract herself from what they’ve said. “St. Peter hates those distinctions. Sure, some weeks, when he can show up.”

Ricky’s shock registers. “Wow. I guess even the Questing Blade can’t quite handle the full force of cherubim and seraphim.”

It could, actually, but Sofia wouldn’t say that aloud. There is this weird insistence between the two of them where Dale feels the need to come as much as he can muster and Sofia asserts that he should only do so when he is free to. She never wants to contend with him when he’s actually here, since good moments don’t deserve to get ruined by dumb arguments, but that’ll never stop her from sitting on the concept that she is putting him through pain the afterlife should not afford.

She cannot continue to patch him up and not wonder why she is at all.

The summit comes sooner than either of the men expect. Especially since they still don’t have a name for the cat. Good ones such as Greenwich and Belvedere and Chelsea refuse to stick. Sofia’s growing concerned with how much thought they’re putting into it. It’s mostly not meant seriously. She understands their indecision, and Pete’s and Rowan’s ideas for names definitely set a precedent. There are only so many places in New York they could mention, though.

Then, they step inside.

There is never a night where Sofia stumbles into the monastery after a drunk walk home and thinks that it is not where she belongs. Something about it brings a startling sense of calm. It is similar to being submerged in clear, cold, _sobering_ water. True to its name, the Order is a place where she hits the concrete and she feels the physicality of change.

As brutal as that sounds, the Monastery of the Midnight Sun is warm when they walk in. It is a stark contrast to how it is outside, brisk winds at their backs. Sofia starts to escort Kingston and Ricky around, giving them the grand tour as they cozy up to it. Soon, she feels a welcoming aura surround them. The atmosphere is always alive when first timers are present. Introductions are in order as people are drawn towards them.

“These are two of the Champions of New York,” she says, “the Vox Populi and the Once Chosen One.”

The Siamese is not exempt from these encounters. His pelt fluffs up when the warmth hits, which truly accentuates how soft he is. Kingston can only cradle him for so long until he finds his way to the floor. The more that others notice his performance, the more they pet him.

They work around the covered walk until all are pleased by the pleasantries. Even her mom makes an appearance, Maria gushing over her daughter finally having her friends here, especially Mr. Fuckin’ March? Then, they are all left alone, standing in the center of the indoor space.

Since greenery cannot grow in this courtyard floating thousands of miles from the ground, the architecture makes use of natural lighting and arranged seating. Even a fountain churns at the center. The pavement turns to cobbled stone underfoot, which the cat pads across now, weaving in and out of the intricate pillars sectioning off the monastery. It almost appears familiar, this place.

That is when they get a name.

“Cloisters,” Ricky murmurs.

“Oh, that is genius,” Kingston agrees.

Sofia does more than take them to Spaghetti’s for that. She _treats_ them to it.

* * *

All the cats are almost captured, with the Siamese taken care of. One day, Sofia is on her way to catch another, trying a shortcut through a recognizable neighborhood, when she sees a shadow go over Staten Island. Its shape is an expanse of wings, so she doesn’t pay it too much attention at first, focusing instead on getting to her old house. But the sight of it leaves her frowning, since it soars with a span broader than the average bird.

Inevitably, she has to scan the sky, and oh, it is worth it. She can’t be sure what anybody else sees. A sight, to be sure, though nothing could come close to what the Unsleeping City shows.

Her husband. Dale Lee, still in that tight white shirt, still in those pressed chinos. He arcs through the air in a circle, feathery white wings allowing him to remain aloft and in flight. It just leaves Sofia in slack-jawed awe. Truth be told, this is the first time she has seen his wings the widest they are allowed to go in a long time. The last time was when she was a newcomer to Nod, a clash of cherubs around him.

“Dale!”

He’s so close to the clouds that he could touch them. Sofia feels she’s too late to catch him, yet he turns when she shouts out anyway, despite needing a second to search the ground for her. She waves her arms wildly at that, relieved no one is in the immediate area to see her insane display.

At last, he finds her, lighting up at the sight of his wife. Like a hawk, Dale changes course, folding his wings in and diving to her level. The road Sofia’s on is free for him to land on, so she runs out once he’s touched down.

“Sweetheart!” Dale says as she launches herself into his arms, which he hugs with muscular ones. “What are you doing down here?”

Oh, god, she has gotten sentimental.

“Come on. I can show you.”

It’s cinematic, what unfolds after she says this. The first time they had a place to call home as a couple, _really_ a place to call home that wasn’t some sad excuse for an apartment that she’d paid for significantly less than he did, it truly felt as though her life had not taken a turn for the worst. For once, this was a chance to start again, out of the heat that her maiden name held, out of the heat the Bicicleta mob ignited. Sure, she was still stuck on Staten Island, but out of the actual central household was enough. Sofia would bet money on that possibility.

Their home had seen better days. The exterior could use a coat of paint, a color that could bring out the flowers naturally growing in the soil surrounding their tiny front porch. The lawn would have to get mowed before the state came for its exact length, so that meant they needed to buy a lawnmower secondhand from somewhere. The driveway should get covered since there is no garage, not even a carport for some mercy on rainy days.

There is a ton of room for improvement. Initially, Sofia thought that wasn’t her forte.

In love with Dale, though, she would do anything.

The two of them rush through the streets on foot now, though there are moments when Dale starts to drift off the ground with a single flap of his wings. Being as strong as he is, with both his hands in hers, Sofia would go with him, heels barely brushing the sidewalk.

“Ever thought we’d end up here?” Sofia asks him as they soon slow to a stop where the carcass of their house is.

Even she isn’t sure what she’s referring to.

“Never.”

They head down the driveway with that, hand in hand, not in a hurry to find whatever it is they are here for. Sure, it’s the cat, but it’s also the history.

There is no coat of paint. There is no front porch. There is no carport.

But there is home.

“No way.”

Sofia is broken from her thoughts when she hears Dale whisper that beneath his breath. Shaking off her stupor of the past, she follows his gaze, through glasses glinting against sunlight.

There is a cat. The brown tabby, in fact, is completely on schedule. Except, it has company.

She should have known this would happen.

Not only is it here, but a deer is also, tentative as the feline approaches its feet. It isn’t with stealth, though. There is nothing predatory to its stalk the way there usually is. This is a peaceful scene instead. The cat is content to come up to it in stride, weaving through its skinny legs and sniffing its hooves in interest. It is an interaction unlike anything Sofia has ever seen since endeavoring to adopt all these cats.

Of course, that also applies to Dale.

“Sof… are you seeing this?” His voice as soft as it can come out.

“Yeah.” She can’t exactly call him out or even pick on him for it later. She’s pretty much as surprised as he is. “Yeah, I am.”

Taking a chance, Sofia advances forward, careful as she comes off the driveway and gets onto the ground. The deer bows before her rather than bounding away, the magic of the city reaching out to it with the gentlest of a connection to calm its nerves. It noses the head of the tabby beneath it to grab its attention. The cat stretches its neck to meet it instead of turning to the human now nearby.

Meanwhile, Dale has not moved an inch. “Are they scared?”

“No.” Sofia is waiting for him to find his courage. “But they will be, if you don’t get your ass down here already.”

He can’t help but to chuckle at that, and it is all he needs to kindly step towards her. Through the grass, he treads, dress shoes getting dirtied up by the ground. This is what the cat hears. His clumsy shuffling as he attempts to tuck his wings in and reduce himself to a less intimidating size is what it zeroes in on. Before Dale can even get to Sofia’s side, the tabby makes a move, darting to his feet. His breath catches.

But then, Dale lifts the cat into his hands, and it is alright.

“Oh my god. What are you? The Virgin Mary?”

Dale cradles the tabby as though it were a swaddled baby. When the deer comes over to his side and nuzzles the cat, it definitely looks like some convoluted nativity scene.

Yet Sofia also sees a different scene.

In another life, Dale isn’t holding a cat, he _is_ holding a newborn, and they are in a hospital, probably St. Owen’s, celebrating a birth brought about all by themselves. Maybe nine of the hardest months of Sofia’s life, but it would’ve been worth it.

To see him with their son or their daughter, to have her own flesh and her own blood in arms, it is terrifying. It would have been wonderful.

It’s obvious they’re both imagining the same thing. Sofia can’t see that Dale is crying at first. Not until her own eyes start to sting.

“Name it Deer,” Dale tells her through tears.

Sofia is incredulous. _“Name it Deer?”_

“You were getting names from everyone else, weren’t you?”

Oh, so her guardian angel _has_ been listening in on her, hasn’t he? Suffice to say, Sofia never says no to her husband.

“Fuck it,” she continues with a shrug, going to stroke the cat on its head. “Your name’s Deer now.”

They stay that way for a while, letting the cat and the deer frolic in the yard as the two of them attempt to collect themselves. Once they wipe the tears off each other’s faces, laughing since _holy shit,_ whether they want it or not, this is their life now, the couple joins the creatures.

Dale gets everyone comfortable under the folds of his wings when the sun starts to set on Staten Island. The deer beds down beside him, while Deer leaps into her lap. Sofia summons an astral arm for the feline to play with if it wants, and as it idly swats at her hand, they talk.

“Is this the last cat you need to catch?” Dale asks as he reaches to scratch Deer under the chin. “I didn’t see any others around.”

“No, actually,” Sofia answers. “There’s still the grey one, though I’m not sure where it is today.” She summons an unseen servant at that, sending it to scout out the last stray in case it is hiding in the tree line.

“And that’s the last one?” When she nods, he smiles. “Awesome.”

At least they’re in agreement about it. “Thank you for telling me to do this, by the way,” Sofia fumbles to say. “You always get the greater ideas.”

“You can’t give me all the credit,” Dale counters. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to bring these cats together.” There is more to the sentence that he tries not to say initially. The good mood catches up to him eventually. She can tell when he decides to turn serious in the way that his brows furrow close to the frame of his glasses. “It wasn’t only for them.”

“Who was it for, then?”

For a while, he sits with that, eyes studying the dappled fur of the fawn with him. It’s as if he is rearranging the words he wanted to say until they’re in the right order. “It was for you, too, Sofie. For your own good. If you’re wondering what that means, well, our situation’s not all that ideal, is it? I don’t want to say that it’s not _great_ when it is. These days, fighting out of heaven to see you, is the most fun I get.”

The nunchucks in his back pocket glint at that, twin silver bars connected with a clinking chain. They catch Sofia’s eye faintly.

“Dale…”

“But the days in between,” he continues over her, which is a first, so Sofia reluctantly relents, “when you’re holed up in the monastery, even with all those monks, it’s easy to feel alone. I’m familiar with that. My life was a lot like that before I ever met you.”

She is starting to tear up again. Had she not stopped at some point?

“Sofie, you were the break I thought I could never catch. I met you and suddenly, I could breathe. I want _you_ to breathe.” Ironically, he exhales then, exactly what he means.

“You want the cats to be the company that you can’t be,” Sofia speaks for him.

He nods, yet there is a correction that sits on his tongue. _“In case_ I can’t be,” he clarifies. “It comes time for change.”

Fuck that phrase. Sofia refuses to say it aloud, but the amount of times she has heard that lately is too coincidental.

“I _never_ want things to change.”

Saying that is her mistake.

When her power fades away, it fractures into pieces. The spectral paw she has formed with a closed fist crackles once, twice, then explodes with a permanence. She almost expects to see crystal splinters in her skin where it disappeared. It is harmless since it is pure magic, yet it sure seems real.

The spectacle startles the deer and sends it off into the forest finally. The cat does not run away, thankfully, only shrinking into the crevice of Sofia’s lap. She hears her unseen servant shatter in the near distance, having failed to find the grey cat.

“What the hell?” Sofia clenches one fist, clenches the other fist, then together, to nothing. “What the hell is happening?” It isn’t until she sees her husband staring right at her that she begins to get truly scared. “Dale?”

“Sofia… your eyes…”

She touches her temple when he says that, though she can only picture what he sees.

Brown, not blue and green.

La Gran Gata took them with her.

“I saw it,” Dale admits. “When I was last here, I didn’t mention it since I was caught up in the moment and thought I was seeing things. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” They get to their feet, Sofia handing Deer to Dale in a hurry. “I have to go, though.”

“Go. I can carry Deer to the Monastery.” Before she rushes off in the direction of the ferry, he catches her wrist in his hand. “I love you.”

She puts a hand to his scarred cheek and plants a kiss on it. “I love you more.”

Sundown on Staten Island is a woman leaving and an angel ascending.

* * *

Her visit to the bodega is blunt, short, and bittersweet.

There is nothing ceremonious as to how it was closed. The windows are boarded up and the door is bolted shut. Nothing even advertising a new business is there yet. As if it were whisked away overnight, the store is a ghost town stationed in Astoria.

Pacing before the shopfront, Sofia contemplates breaking and entering dully, but there really is no reason to when nothing is waiting for her inside. Glances through exposed glass and peeks into the spaces between wooden planks prove it is empty. If she stared long enough, she could see a shelf already collecting dust. God, it hurts. That she, Sofia, had been here before and that she, La Gran Gata, had been here before, too. Now, there is no trace of her, not even the slightest hint of a shimmering spectral pelt present.

Sofia forces herself to stand on the curb in front of a crosswalk after a few minutes, slamming a hand on the button to trigger the traffic lights to change. If she kept this up, an authority could approach her with well-meant suspicion as to why she was creeping on a now closed bodega. The last thing she wants for the end of this good day she spent with Dale and her newest pet named Deer is getting thrown in prison.

God, she has to go somewhere. Not the monastery. She does not deserve to wash all these feelings off tonight. She deserves to soak in it. As the stoplights turn yellow, Sofia studies the signs down the street she is headed. A couple of restaurants and other businesses line the nearby block.

And a bar.

The Walk Sign flicks on, and Sofia ambles on briskly but miserably. The person in the pedestrian signal waves to her as she walks past, probably recognizing her from the countless amount of times she’s come on La Gran Gata’s behalf, so she puts up a weak hand of hello before pressing forward.

When she barges into the bar, she sees that it’s not especially busy tonight, but Sofia can assume by the tough crowd that it at least caters to its usual suspects, wanting to bide away time until the late hours hit. If that’s the case, then she’s right at home here.

One shot, she swears to herself as she approaches the bar and practically throws herself onto a stool. One shot and then, she goes somewhere.

She signals to the bartender, thinking she’s not quite sure what she wants, until she orders a tequila shot out of nowhere. A shot glass soon slides over to her, salted rim and juiced lime and all, and it just goes straight down her throat.

Alright, so a couple more shots than she means slip into her system, but she’s not in the worst state she’s even been in. That being said, her constitution has surely been through better days. Before she overstays her welcome, Sofia sees herself out.

Outside is fucking _freezing._ How had happened? The weather was fine when she was sober. Sofia hitches her turtleneck up and wraps her corduroy coat around her in annoyance, the shearling lining not lending much warmth. Then, she glances around for someone else suffering.

Outside is silent. Well, scratch that. What _is_ that one sound?

It hardly takes Sofia long to figure it out. There’s a man standing across the street from her, clad in the dirtiest duster. He’s hurling some shurikens at a poster plastered up near him. While she can’t make out what it says, it must be serious, considering how much brute force he channels into throwing them.

 _“Hey!”_ she shouts, way too loud.

He turns to her, and it is a lot to take in, how he looks.

 _“What?”_ he yells to her in return.

“Do me a favor,” Sofia slurs out, “and throw those at the boarded-up bodega down the street if you ever see those signs there.”

The man seems surprised that she’s encouraging his behavior. Sure, it could hypothetically be illegal, but hey, it isn’t as if he’s harming anyone. “Fine! I guess!” he finally says, though he falters a little when he hears how Sofia sounds. “Are you alright?” At least he attempts to seem worried for this stranger condoning property damage.

But she doesn’t need his concern. “Never been better!” she lies as she leaps to the top of a building nearby and leaves him behind.

* * *

Sofia forgot how it felt to stand at the top of the Empire State Building.

Standing isn’t the right word for what she’s doing. The first time she was here, she was standing. On one foot, in fact, a stilettoed silhouette atop the New York skyline. Now, Sofia can barely keep her balance from this high. She is crouching on the lightning rod, and she hates that she wonders how she managed to stand so perfect and poised all that time ago.

Then again, she doesn’t need to stand. Not if it’s only her here.

 _“I don’t get it!”_ The shout is raw with a lot of things. Frigid air, an awful amount of alcohol. _“Why is now when it comes time for change?”_

The first snowfall of the season had started on her way over here, which explains the drastic drop in temperature. Still, it’s not exactly a comfort. With the winter winds, she doesn’t know how long she’ll last here.

Until she can force herself to stop screaming, she assumes.

_“Have I not changed enough? Was getting awakened into the Unsleeping City not enough?”_

As always, the wind whistles a silent response.

“I get it,” she whispers for a second. “I knew this was only a grace period, and now, I am getting punished for it. I am seeing the bad thing that I knew was lurking around the corner, that I knew would sneak up on me if I let my guard down, _but that didn’t mean you had to take her!”_

If La Gran Gata is out there somewhere, Sofia doesn’t feel her.

“She doesn’t deserve this! Her bodega has always been a beating heart here, yet it was ripped out as though it were nothing! How does that happen?”

How does the source of her worth as a hero disappear?

“What is enough? _Do I need to start listing things until I trigger something?”_

Nothing.

“Fine! _Fuck it!_ If I’m too much of a coward to go to therapy, _I might as well unpack it on 102 stories’ worth of concrete!”_

Her knees are aching underneath, knocking against each other as they struggle to keep her up. Her feet are frozen under her, Louboutins leaving skin exposed. Still, Sofia refuses to move. She is facing whatever this is, if it means getting La Gran Gata to return.

“I estranged myself from my family. I figured out how to fight. I moved on from my husband when I thought he cheated on me with a succubus. I killed said succubus, Isabella Infierno, for trying to homewreck my relationship with him.”

The past is hard to speak into simple sentences. There is a lot more to saying she grew distant from her relatives when the same thing brought her mother to the monastery. Is estrangement really what happens when you still have your mom nearby? She drank and dealt damage to forget Dale in the fallout of an unofficial divorce. Is alcohol and a sucker punch how you leave the love of your life?

“Kingston and Ricky told me they were happy with Liz and Esther. Rowan told me she would be leaving to bring the Ruler of the Faerie Court home. Pete told me he had gone sober.” She’d wanted them to name her cats since she’d wanted to catch up. What Sofia had refused to factor in was that they are all different now. Still the same in some ways, her fellow Champions of New York, yet wiser. “They told me they were all _changing.”_

She isn’t.

“Dale died.”

The day she found out, her first time in Nod, is faded from her mind now. Hidden with the fights she had thrust herself into, it is hard to remember him dead, being dragged to Heaven. A portal, a spiritual airport. _When you get to the top._ She is at the top, and it looks like rock bottom.

“Kugrash died.”

But she has no excuse for him. It is morbidly funny, the fact that here is the first time Sofia has said his name since she crushed a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich into the center of Times Square. Not quite a memorial. She had buried his memory under duties to the Order.

“Is any of this enough?”

She already has an answer to that. A definitive _no._

“I really am alone, aren’t I?” She’s stopped yelling. There’s no point. “I do need those cats. I don’t even have all of them. I can’t find one of them.”

On that note, Sofia slips off the top of the Empire State Building and slowly lowers herself into the observation deck, numb.

It is then that she sees it.

Midnight means the area has been closed for about an hour now. It is absolutely deserted, no tourists, no visitors, no _one,_ in sight. Whether items are left is not necessarily the staff’s concern. The city is the easiest site to lose things. Then again, if Sofia knows New York, and _oh,_ she knows it, _creatures_ of any kind are not allowed here.

There is a cat sat atop the tower viewer closest to her, and despite how faint the light from inside the deck is, she can its dirty grey coat clearly.

Sofia drops to the floor of the observation deck.

“You’re here,” the cat, _the fucking cat,_ says.

She’d recognize that gruff voice anywhere.

_“Kug?”_

The feline lifts its head into the light and grins.

“Hey, Sof.”

As the blood rushes back into her limbs, Sofia stumbles towards him. Kugrash meets her halfway, lunging into her arms and scrambling to stay in them. They get caught in the dumbest hug that lasts several minutes, with her holding tight and him attempting to with his short and stubby legs.

When they are finally done with that, Sofia holds him out in front of her. “I can’t believe it,” she gawks. “Kugrash, in the body of a cat.”

If a feline can shrug, he certainly tries. “A cat. A rat. I’m versatile like that. How are you?”

“Shouldn’t you know?” Sofia avoids the question swiftly, not quite answering. “Consciousness dispersed, et cetera?”

“Sure, but that gets boring. Also, borderline stalkerish.” Kugrash lets what he asked hang in the air for a little while longer before giving up. “I heard about what happened to La Gran Gata.”

Going right for the guttural. Alright. “Yeah,” Sofia confirms weakly, sinking to the floor of the observation deck.

“She kind of sent me. Thought you and I deserved a reunion of sorts.” He clambers out of her arms for the sake of not getting her dirty and sits on the brick floor beside her. The snow coming down is more than enough. “She’s not gone. A lot of good things never really leave this city. The cosmic forces that be or whatever still persist. I mean, you couldn’t even get rid of me. What makes you think she’s gone?”

“My powers are gone.” _My eyes are gone._

Kugrash _tsks_ her. Through the teeth of a cat. _What?_ “Those weren’t what made you. Sof, what got you here to the top of the Empire State Building?”

Sofia shrugs. “Drunken determination,” she guesses.

“Your sheer force of will,” he says synonymously. “Not to discredit your patron, but you were very much capable of coming up here without her spells. If she wants to chase me around the ether later for saying that, so be it. I only speak in truths, as I transcend the material plane.”

“So does she.”

“Okay, way to crush the barrier between us.” He feigns offense before resuming being deliberate. “Tell me the real reason you’re worried.”

Where does she start? Did he hear any of what she said on the lightning rod?

“La Gran Gata was my safety net,” Sofia puts it plainly, which is harsh, considering the honor of it. “When we first found her, that day in the bodega, and I freed her… she gave me this.” She twists off a ring to the right of her wedding band then, a fist embossed into it. A gift from the shelves.

He can only nod her on to continue.

“Besides being my patron, she was my protector. I could be as careless as I wanted. Sustaining my injuries just as much as coming back with brighter damage.” Sliding the ring onto her middle finger, it feels wrong on her shaking hand. “I always wanted to die defending this city. _Really_ die, not be revivified after banging my husband.” If the mood were lighter, she would laugh. “I couldn’t turn cowardly.” _The way my family would._

“Holy shit. I always knew you were a bit of a masochist, but since when were you self-sacrificing?”

“Since you were.”

The silence that ensues is _insane._ She hates it. She has to keep talking.

“I never really mourned you. Sure, I attended your funeral. I said my piece… partially since Wally insisted and I can’t turn that sweet man down… and I gave my condolences. But I did not go all the way out to the cemetery to air out my grievances. I came to see the end. That was it.”

Maybe Kugrash knows all of this already, but it’s better to get it off her chest now, when he wants _the real reason._

“For a while there, I hated you. I went on a bender because of what you did. Seeing you eat that bagel, seeing you dissolve into the universe, seeing you _die?_ It fucking sucked, Kug. It really fucking sucked.” She holds out a hand when he opens his mouth to say something. Not yet. “I understand you had to do it. Why would I not? I mean, if we were to switch places, I can wholeheartedly say I would do the same in earnest.”

Kugrash kindly closes his mouth.

“It hurt, though. Especially since you were the only person I told about Dale. Sure, I barely remember that night now, and maybe that has something to do with how out of it I was. But you knew me when I was a _wreck…_ barring the fact that I still _am_ a wreck… and you did not care. Actually, you cared too much. You patched me up. You made me _stupid_ plastic shoes. You brought me up when I was down in the dumps. _Literally.”_

The way she phrases that is permission enough to laugh.

“Sof…” Kugrash sighs out after sniffing her breath with his new nose. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes, I’ve been drinking!” she shouts before settling down. “Why? Did you want some? I didn’t bring any.”

“No, and don’t you _dare_ let any of your adopted cats drink alcohol.” Kugrash shakes his head, grey pelt going everywhere. “I want you to stop.”

Wait. “What?”

“You said up there that Pete had gone sober, hadn’t you?” God, he _did_ hear what she said on the lightning rod. “You let it stick with you. You let it stay with you. That can only mean you want it to happen to you, too.”

Oh, no. “Okay, Kug, you’ve been in that body for too long. I think it’s time to kick you out of there.” Sofia ruffles his scruffy fur as she says that, giving him a good scratch the way she would the other cats.

Kugrash seems to like it until he processes what she says, then he snaps out of it. “Actually… yeah, it is.”

Why does he sound so serious? “Hey, I was just joking.” When he pounces to the tower viewer in silence and starts to survey the landscape thoughtfully, Sofia gets up and joins him. “Kug?”

“I wasn’t planning on staying for too long. Guess that’s what happens when you got good company.” Kugrash looks to her then, acknowledging how great she has been. “La Gran Gata only wanted me to say that the reason she got saved was through _your_ powers, not hers. I mean, you beat people to a pulp with your bare hands! How is that not heroic?” He then rears up on her, placing his paws on her chest, over her heart. “But that is what _she_ said. What _I_ want to say is that it is bullshit what happened to you. I’m sorry I left you behind, Sof. I’m sorry… a lot of us left you behind. But you are braver than the best of us.” This spiel is starting to get to him. “Promise me you don’t go dying on me. Promise me you’ll go sober.”

“I don’t know…”

 _“Promise.”_ He kneads his paws in, claws still sheathed, yet the motion is painful. “You deserve happiness past what has happened, but you do not get that by staying stagnant. Everyone already said it to you. Now, you need to hear yourself say it.” The city starts to hum around the two of them, as if it demands an audience. As if it demands him home. “I have to go. Bring this boy home safe.”

“I promise.” Sofia means that in all cases.

“Good. Now, how are you getting down?”

She stares to the heavens, to the lightning rod getting lined with snow.

“I’ve jumped _from_ buildings. I’ve never jumped _off_ buildings.”

“Well, there’s always a first for everything, isn’t there?”

Sofia scoops Kugrash up and starts to climb to where she once was. When she gets there, she breathes out, and the frost that she sees floats off.

“It comes time for change.”

When Sofia falls from the top of the Empire State Building, she _flies._ The waking world starts to stretch past her, escaping and screeching the way subway tracks would, out into the night. In its foundations, there is wrought an outline of a skyline. The dreaming world goes to present itself, finding hold and folding around her, similar to clean sheets of laundry hung out to dry. The cityscape is turning from reality to fiction, glowing golden to pulsating purple. Cars of traffic inch on and on. People pass people to get where they need to go.

Seconds from the ground, forty points the only thing that could save her from dying, Kugrash’s voice rings out. Not from the cat, but from the city.

_Sof. Open your eyes._

There is a shadow where the light of a streetlamp went out. As if she stepped through a threshold, she goes from 1,454 feet of damage to standing fine, having teleported into a dim setting.

She emerges from the fall unscathed, grey cat in hand, and goes home.

* * *

She gets better. When Kugrash tells her to get sober, she heeds his word. Pete lets her tag along to an anonymous meeting, and when she gets her hands on the first chip, the color silver, she never lets it out of her sights. Its dull sheen reminds Sofia of a greasy friend. She keeps it safe.

Rowan leaves, the way she said she would. Her departure doesn’t have the fanfare Sofia predicts. No parade down 125th Street. Instead, it is only for her friends. It is only for her _family._ Pete has his bookstore closed for the day so that she can leave safely. Before she goes, she gives each and every one of them a hug and a kiss to the cheek. For Pete, it is a full one on the mouth. Then, she says “It’s not you, it’s me,” tips her sunhat, and disappears. The second she steps into his mirror to Nod, Pete loses his shit, wondering if she meant to say “It’s not me, it’s you.”

Sofia puts a hand on his shoulder. Rest assured, she did not.

When she and her mother come down out of the clouds and into Spaghetti’s to dine in one day, she inquires about the one bedroom upstairs as they pay the check. It’s not quite what they want, yet it’s what they need. They move out of the monastery a couple of weeks later, mostly to get grounded. That doesn’t mean Sofia is suddenly renouncing the title of First Fist, though. The other monks would have to fight her for it.

Speaking of them, the Order helps her learn what the hell happened to her, that night on the Empire State Building. The Way of the Shadow is truly a step up from what she used to know. She misses the magic sometimes, since who could resist craving the contract of that? But walking with the shadows, casting spells she did not have with her, that instead come from within her own self, is a comfort to Sofia enough.

Minor illusioning shit is fun for the cats, too.

God, she has the sweetest creatures on earth. Sure, Sofia seems to fit the role of cat lady now that the one under her care is gone and replaced with five times her spectral soul. Half of her money from hairdressing is funneled into food, toys, and what have you. Collars seem a little excessive, so she microchips them on Esther’s recommendation, though at least one of them gets a cobalt one to match her baby blues.

When Dale comes, they go out on dates with them to their old home, letting them play on the porch they have always loved. They repaint it with a nice coat of white and they repair it in the case that it could collapse with all, what, _seven_ of them on top? It holds anyway. They set up chairs. They have company over. They contemplate a whole reconstruction on the house, which is tossed aside once Dale’s tie is.

The cats retreat to the tree line when they decide to do that.

One morning, Sofia rises to them all across her sheets. It is so cute, seeing them sleep.

Well, almost all of them. There is no grey pelt in sight.

She and her mother spend an _embarrassing_ amount of their day searching for the cat. It’s not as if there are more nooks and crannies in this small space for the feline to hide in, so it shouldn’t be _hard,_ but Sofia and Maria have lived a lifetime under a roof where family lost things and never let them be found. So, when she finally sees him under their couch, stowed away with some other miscellaneous things such as, wait a second, is that the scarf her mother was last knitting? Anyway, she shouts when she spots him and pulls him out.

Kalina, Primsy, Cloisters, Deer, _Kug._ Yeah, she gets the honor of that last one. All the names in a row are a little ridiculous. She doesn’t care.

Her life is a little softer now. Not _that_ soft, fortunately. She is still a bit of a vigilante, but hey, that’s a later worry. At the least, she has learned to pull her punches.

Sometimes, when she is in Manhattan, since she needs land that is not Staten Island from time to time, Sofia sees the skyscrapers. In all their fucking glory, she cannot help but to climb them and soar from roof to roof. She never touches the Empire State Building, though, lying to herself, saying it’s to get out from the tourist grasp. Social media is a far different crowd pleaser than the monastery. But the truth is, there is a _real reason._

She pictures the slow fall, and she is at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are sincerely appreciated!


End file.
